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She  always  brought  an  atmosphere  of 
kindness.     He  was  a  boyish  man. 


THE    RAFT 


BY 


CONINGSBY   DAWSON 

AUTHOR  or  "THE  GARDEN  WITHOUT  WALLS" 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 
ORSON   LOWELL 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND   COMPANY 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  igi4, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND   COMPANY 


Published  September,  1914 


35  OT 


TO 

flDurfel 

MY  DEAR  SISTER 


1523789 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.  A  MAN 

II.  "  I'M  HALF  SICK  OF  SHADOWS  " 

III.  ALL  THE  WAY  FOR  THIS  . 

IV.  LOVE'S  SHADOW         ... 
V.  ENTER  PETER  AND  GLORY 

VI.  JEHANE'S  SECOND  MARRIAGE  . 

VII.  THE  WHISTLING  ANGEL    . 

VIII.  "  COMING,  COMING,  PETERKINS  "     . 

IX.  KAY  AND  SOME  OTHERS    . 

X.  WAFFLES  BETTERS  HIMSELF     . 

XI.  THE  HOME  LIFE  OF  A  FINANCIER  . 

XII.  THE  'MAGINATIVE  CHILD. 

XIII.  PRICKCAUTIONS 

XIV.  PETER  IN  EGYPT       .... 
XV.  MARRIED  LIFE 

XVI.  THE  ANGELS  AND  OCKY  WAFFLES  . 

XVII.  A  HOUSE  BUILT  ON  SAND 

XVIII.  PETER  TO  THE  RESCUE     . 

XIX.  THE  CHRISTMAS  CAB 

XX.  THE  HIDING  OF  OCKY  WAFFLES 

XXI.  STRANGE  HAPPENINGS 

XXII.  CAT'S  MEAT  LOOKS  ROUND     . 

XXIII.  AND  GLORY  SAID       .... 

XXIV.  THE  TRICYCLE  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY 

XXV.  THE  HAPPY  COTTAGE 

XXVI.  THE  HAUNTED  WOOD 

XXVII.  PETER  FINDS  A  FAIRY 

XXVIII.  WAKING  UP 

vii 


PAGE 

3 

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19 

26 

34 
37 
47 
56 

63 

72 

82 

90 

100 

1 08 

118 

131 
144 
152 
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171 
1 86 
196 
203 
207 
218 
228 
245 
258 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIX.  A  GOLDEN  WORLD 267 

XXX.  HALF  IN  LOVE 278 

XXXI.  A  NIGHT  WITH  THE  MOON 288 

XXXII.  IF  You  WON'T  COME  TO  HEAVEN,  THEN —  .        .  300 

XXXIII.  THE  WORLD  AND  OCKY 311 

XXXIV.  THE  BENEVOLENT  DELILAHS 324 

XXXV.  WINGED  BIRDS  AND  ROOTED  TREES        .        .        .  330 

XXXVI.  THE  SPREADING  OF  WINGS 344 

XXXVII.  THE  RACE 362 

XXXVIII.  A  NIGHT  OF  IT 366 

XXXIX.  ON  THE  RIVER 373 

XL.  MR.  GRACE  GOES  ON  THE  BUST     ....  384 

XLI.  TREE  TOPS 396 

XLII.  THE  COACH-RIDE  TO  LONDON 401 

XLIII.  AN  UNFINISHED  POEM 420 

XLIV.  IN  SEARCH  OF  YOUNGNESS 426 

XLV.  LOVE  KNOCKS  AT  KAY'S  DOOR        .        .        .        .431 

XLVI.  THE  ANGEL  WHISTLES 445 

XLVII.  "THEIR  VIRGINS  HAD  No  MARRIAGE  SONGS  ;  AND 

THEY  THAT  COULD  SWIM—"     ....  450 

XLVIII.  AND  GLORY 457 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


NAN  AND  HARRINGTON Frontispiece 

She  always  brought  an  atmosphere  of  kindness.     He 
was  a  boyish  man. 

PAGE 
OCKY   WAFFLES 133 

He  was   like   a  jerry-built   house.     The  angels  who 
made  him  had  scamped  their  work. 

MR.  SOMP   AND    GRICE 2O8 

Mr.  Somp  had  no  sympathy  with  the  Salvation  Army. 
HARRY 222 

This  pugnacious  master  of  the  mouth  organ. 

PETER  . 260 

Whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  he  must  grow  up. 

KAY 310 

Once  she  had  been  his  entire  world. 

MR.  GRICE   AND   CAT'S   MEAT 394 

"A  wonder  of  a  'oss,  and  a  reg'lar  mother  ter  me." 

GLORY 428 

"  Someone  whom  you  and  I  are  always  forgetting." 


IX 


THE    RAFT 


btrstns  fjab  no  marrtage^ongg;  aitb  tfjep  tfjat 
toulb  stotm  bib  casrt  tljemsielties!  into  tfje  sta  to  get  to 
lanb,  anb  gome  on  boarbg,  anb  gome  on  otter  tljings'. 


THE  RAFT 

CHAPTER    I 
A    MAN 

IT  was  said  of  Jehane  that  she  married  blindly  on  the 
re-bound.  She  herself  confessed  in  later  life  that  she 
married  out  of  dread  of  becoming  an  old  maid. 

A  don's  daughter  at  Oxford  has  plentiful  opportunities 
for  becoming  an  old  maid.  Undergraduates  are  too  adven 
turously  young  and  graduates  are  too  importantly  in  ear 
nest  for  marriage;  whether  too  young  or  too  earnest,  they 
are  all  too  occupied.  To  bring  a  man  to  the  point  of 
matrimony,  you  must  catch  him  unaware  and  invade  his 
idleness.  Love,  in  its  initial  stages,  is  frivolous. 

This  tragic  state  of  affairs  was  frequently  discussed  by 
Jehane  with  her  best  friend,  Nan  Tudor.  Were  they  to 
allow  themselves  to  fade  husbandless  into  the  autumn  of 
girlhood?  Were  they  too  ladylike  to  make  any  effort  to 
save  themselves  from  this  horrid  fate  ? — In  the  gray  winter 
as  they  returned  from  a  footer  match,  on  the  river  in  sum 
mer  as  the  eights  swung  by,  in  the  old-fashioned  rectory- 
garden  at  Cassingland,  this  was  their  one  absorbing  topic 
of  conversation.  Ye  gods,  were  they  never  to  be  married ! 

They  watched  the  privileged  male-creatures  who  had 
it  in  their  power  to  choose  them:  that  they  did  not  choose 
them  seemed  an  insult.  When  term  commenced,  they  would 
dash  up  to  their  colleges  in  hansoms  and  step  out  confident 
and  smiling.  They  would  saunter  through  the  narrow 
Oxford  streets  to  morning  lectures,  arm-in-arm,  in  tattered 
gowns,  smoking  cigarettes,  jolly  and  lackadaisical.  In  the 
afternoon,  with  savage  and  awakened  energy,  they  would 

3 


4  THE   RAFT 

strive  excessively  for  athletic  honors.  At  night  they  would 
smash  windows,  twang  banjoes,  rag  one  another,  assault 
constables  and  sometimes  get  drunk.  At  the  end  of  term 
they  would  step  into  their  hansoms  and  vanish,  lords  of 
creation,  in  search  of  a  well-earned  rest. 

Jehane  contrasted  their  lives  with  Nan's  and  hers. 
"They've  got  everything;  our  hands  are  empty.  We're 
compulsory  nuns  and  may  do  nothing  to  free  ourselves. 
When  he  comes  to  my  rescue,  if  he  ever  comes,  how  I 
shall  adore  him." 

Then  together  they  would  fall  to  picturing  their  chosen 
lover.  Unfortunately  the  choice  was  not  theirs — their  por 
tion  was  to  wait  for  him  to  come. 

They  knew  of  lean,  striding  women  in  North  Oxford 
who  had  waited — women  whose  hair  had  lost  its  brightness, 
who  fondled  dogs  and  pretended  to  hate  babies. 

Jehane  and  Nan  adored  babies.  They  loved  the  feel  of 
little  crumpled  fingers  against  their  throats  and  the  warmth 
of  a  tiny  body  cuddled  against  their  breasts.  They  never 
missed  an  opportunity  for  hugging  a  baby.  They  never 
passed  a  young  mother  in  the  streets  without  a  pang  of 
envy. 

Why  was  it  that  no  man  had  chosen  them?  Gazing  at 
their  own  reflections,  they  would  tell  themselves  that  they 
were  not  bad-looking — Jehane  with  her  cloudy  brown  eyes 
and  gipsy  mane  of  night-black  hair,  Nan  all  blue  and  flaxen 
and  fluffy.  The  years  slipped  by.  Where  was  he  in  the 
world  ? 

For  eight  years,  since  she  was  seventeen,  Jehane  had 
never  ceased  watching.  Every  New  Year  and  birthday 
she  had  whispered  to  herself,  "Perhaps,  by  this  time  next 
year  he  will  have  come."  Marriage  seemed  to  her  the 
escape  to  every  happiness. 

Now  that  she  was  twenty-five  she  grew  desperate;  from 
now  on,  with  every  day,  her  chance  of  being  one  of  the 
chosen  would  diminish.  As  she  expressed  it  to  Nan, 
"We're  two  girls  adrift  on  a  raft  and  we  can't  swim. 
Over  there's  the  land  of  marriage  with  all  the  little  chil- 


A    MAN  5 

dren,  the  homes  and  the  husbands ;  we've  no  means  of  get 
ting  to  it.  Unless  some  of  the  men  see  us  and  put  off  in 
boats  to  our  rescue,  we'll  be  caught  in  the  current  of  the 
years  and  swept  out  into  the  hunger  of  mid-ocean.  But 
they're  too  busy  to  notice  us.  Oh,  dear !" 

When  Jehane  spoke  like  this  Nan  would  laugh;  except 
for  Jehane,  no  such  thoughts  would  have  entered  her  head. 
They  didn't  worry  her  when  she  was  with  her  rector  father 
at  Cassingland,  occupied  with  her  quiet  round  of  village- 
duties.  In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  believed  that  life  was 
planned  by  an  unescapable  Providence.  Her  placid  phil 
osophy  irritated  Jehane.  She  said  that  Nan's  God  was  a 
stout  widower  in  a  clerical  band ;  whereat  Nan  would  smile 
dreamily  and  answer,  "Wouldn't  it  be  just  ripping  if  God 
were?" 

At  such  times  Jehane  thought  Nan  stupid. 

That  Jehane  should  have  been  so  romantic  about  mar 
riage  was  inexplicable,  save  on  the  ground  that  she  voiced 
the  passions  which  her  parents  had  suppressed  in  them 
selves. 

Her  father,  Professor  Benares  Usk,  was  the  greatest 
living  Homeric  scholar — a  tall,  bowed  man  with  a  broad 
beard  that  flowed  down  below  his  watch-chain,  a  bald 
and  venerable  egg-shaped  head  and  a  secret  habit  of  taking 
snuff.  He  had  lost  interest  in  human  doings  since  Greece 
was  trampled  by  the  Roman  Eagles.  Both  he  and  Mrs. 
Usk  were  misty-eyed — they  had  frictioned  off  the  corners 
of  their  personalities  in  the  graveyards  of  the  past;  their 
minds  were  museums,  stored  with  chipped  splendors,  the 
atmosphere  of  which  was  stuffy. 

Mrs.  Usk  was  an  authority  on  Scandinavian  folk-lore — 
a  thin,  fine-featured,  flat-breasted  woman  who  wore  her 
dresses  straight  up  and  down  without  a  bulge.  Her  soft 
gray  hair  was  drawn  tightly  off  her  forehead  and  twisted 
at  the  back  into  a  hard,  round  walnut. 

Only  on  Sunday  afternoons  was  the  house  thrown  open 
to  visitors ;  then  Jehane  would  offer  tea  to  ill-at-ease  young 
bloods,  while  her  father  fingered  his  beard  and  made  awk- 


6  THE   RAFT 

ward  efforts  to  be  affable,  and  her  mother,  ignoring  the 
guests,  sat  bolt  upright  in  her  chair  and  slumbered.  What 
a  look  of  relief  came  into  the  tanned  faces  of  the  men 
when  they  caught  up  their  hats  and  departed.  They  had 
come  as  a  duty  to  see  not  Jehane  but  her  father;  and  now 
they  went  off  to  their  pleasures.  Oh,  those  Sunday  after 
noons,  how  they  made  her  shudder! 

Often  she  marveled  at  her  parents — what  had  brought 
them  together?  To  her  way  of  thinking,  they  knew  so 
little  about  love  and  could  so  easily  have  dispensed  with 
one  another.  Like  dignified  sleepy  house-cats,  they  sat 
on  distant  sides  of  the  domestic  hearth,  heedless  of  every 
thing  save  to  be  undisturbed. — Ah,  when  she  married,  life 
would  become  intense,  ecstatic — one  throb  of  passion ! 

There  was  a  story  current  in  the  'Varsity  of  how  the 
Professor  cared  for  Mrs.  Usk.  He  had  taken  her  for  a 
drive  in  a  dog-cart,  he  sitting  in  front  and  she,  character 
istically,  by  choice  at  the  back.  Deep  in  thought,  he  had 
jolted  through  country-lanes.  Her  presence  did  not  occur 
to  him  till  he  had  returned  to  Oxford  and  had  drawn 
up  before  his  house ;  then  he  perceived  that  she  was  not 
there  and  must  have  tumbled  out.  Some  hours  later,  having 
retraced  his  journey,  he  found  her  by  the  roadside  with  a 
broken  leg.  For  the  next  three  months  the  greatest  living 
Homeric  scholar  did  penance,  wheeling  an  exacting  lady 
in  a  bathchair.  Doubtless,  he  planned  his  great  studies 
of  the  Iliad  as  he  trundled,  and  the  chair's  occupant  con 
structed  English  renderings  of  Scandinavian  legends.  At 
all  events,  next  autumn  they  each  had  a  book  published. 

These  were  the  influences  under  which  Jehane  grew  up. 
Her  parents  were  more  like  children  to  her  than  parents, 
gentle  and  utterly  absorbed  in  themselves ;  they  were  no 
earthly  use  when  it  came  to  marriage.  She  could  not  apply 
to  them  for  help;  they  would  have  thought  her  indelicate, 
if  they  had  thought  about  it  at  all.  Probably  they  would 
not  have  understood.  Sometimes  marriage  came  to  girls 
— sometimes  it  didn't;  nobody  was  to  blame  whether  it 
did  or  didn't.  That  would  have  been  their  way  of  sum- 


A   MAN  7 

ming  up.  Meanwhile  Jehane  was  twenty-five;  she  had 
begun  to  abandon  hope,  when  the  great  change  occurred 
— it  commenced  with  William  Barrington. 

It  was  early  summer.  The  streets  had  been  washed  clean 
by  rain  and  were  now  haunted  by  strange  sweet  perfumes 
which  drifted  over  walls  from  hidden  college-gardens.  Nan 
had  driven  in  from  Cassingland  and  had  come  to  Jehane 
for  lunch  and  shelter.  It  was  afternoon ;  the  sun  was 
shining  tearfully  over  glistening  turrets  and  drenched  tree- 
tops. 

Jehane  unlatched  the  window  and  leant  out  above  the 
flint-paved  street,  looking  up  and  holding  out  her  hands. 
From  far  away,  out  of  sight  on  the  river,  came  the  thud 
of  oars  and  hoarse  shouts  where  the  eights  were  prac 
tising.  Halfway  down  the  street  the  tower  of  Calvary 
soared,  incredibly  frail  and  defiant,  against  a  running  sea 
of  cloud. 

"There's  not  a  drop.  If  you  don't  believe  me,  feel  for 
yourself.  Let's " 

She  drew  back  swiftly,  looking  slightly  flustered. 

From  the  back  of  the  room  Nan's  voice  came  smooth 
and  unhurried,  "What's  the  matter?  Why  don't  you  finish 
what  you  were  saying?" 

"It's  a  man,"  Jehane  whispered. 

In  an  instantly  arranged  conspiracy,  Nan  tiptoed  over 
to  her  friend.  Cautiously  they  peered  out.  No  sooner  had 
Nan's  eyes  found  what  they  sought  than  she  darted  back; 
Jehane,  with  rising  color,  remained  bending  forward. 

The  bell  rang.  A  few  seconds  later,  the  front-door 
opened  and  shut.  Jehane  drew  a  long  breath  and  stood 
erect.  Laughing  nervously,  she  patted  her  face  with  both 
hands.  "You  look  scared,  you  dear  old  thing — more  fluffy 

than  ever :  just  like  a  tiny  newly  hatched  chicken But 

it's  happened  in  the  world  before." 

"Oh,  Jehane,  how  could  you  do  it?" 

"Do  what?" 

"You  know — stare  at  him  like  that." 


$  THE    RAFT 

"I  looked ;  I  didn't  stare.  Why,  my  dear,  that's  what 
woman's  eyes  were  made  for." 

"But — but  you  flung  your  eyes  about  his  neck.  You've 
dragged  him  into  the  house. — And  I  want  to  hide  so 
badly." 

"I  don't."  Jehane  feigned  a  coolness  which  she  did  not 
possess. 

A  step  sounded  on  the  stairs.  Nan  buried  her  hot  cheeks 
in  a  bowl  of  lilac.  A  maid  entered  with  a  card. 

Jehane  looked  up   from  reading  it. 

"Don't  know  him,  Betty.     What  made  him  come?" 

Betty  looked  her  surprise.  "To  see  master,  of  course. 
That's  what  he  said." 

"But  you  told  him  father  was  out?" 

"I  did,  miss.  But  he's  all  the  way  from  London.  Seems 
the  master  gave  him  an  appointment.  He  told  me  to  tell 
you  as  you'd  do  instead." 

"Just  like  father  to  forget.  We're  going  on  the  river; 
I  suppose  I'll  have  to  see  him  first. — No,  Nan,  I  won't 
be  left  by  myself. — Betty,  you'd  better  show  him  up." 

Nan  threw  herself  down  on  the  sofa,  crushing  herself 
into  the  cushions,  as  far  from  the  door  as  she  could  get. 

"I  wish  I'd  not  come.    Jehane,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

Jehane  seated  herself  near  the  window  where  the  light 
fell  across  her  shoulder  most  becomingly.  She  spread  out 
her  skirts  decorously  and  picked  up  a  book,  composing  her 
features  to  an  expression  of  sweetest  demureness — that 
it  was  a  Greek  grammar  did  not  matter.  In  answer  to 
Nan's  question  she  replied,  "Little  stupid.  Nothing  ven 
ture,  nothing  have." 


CHAPTER    II 
"I'M    HALF  SICK   OF   SHADOWS" 

THE  strange  man  was  rather  amused  as  he  climbed  the 
stairs,  but  he  showed  no  amusement  when  he  entered. 

Jehane  laid  aside  her  book  leisurely  and  rose  from  her 
chair ;  he  was  even  better  to  look  at  than  she  had  expected. 
It  was  his  clothes  that  impressed  her  first ;  the  gray  tweeds 
fitted  his  athletic  figure  with  just  that  maximum  of  good 
taste  that  stops  short  of  perfection.  Then  it  was  his  face, 
clean-shaven  and  intellectual — the  face  of  a  boyish  man, 
mobile  and  keen  in  expression.  She  liked  the  way  he 
did  his  dark  brown  hair,  almost  as  dark  as  hers,  swept 
straight  back  without  a  parting  from  his  forehead.  His 
eyes  were  kindly,  piercing  and  blue-gray;  for  a  man  he 
had  exceptionally  long,  thin  hands.  She  liked  him  entirely ; 
she  wondered  whether  he  was  equally  well  impressed. 

"So  thoughtless  of  father — he's  out.  Is  there  anything 
I  can  do  for  you?" 

Jehane  was  tall,  but  she  only  reached  up  to  his  shoulders. 
His  eyes  looked  down  on  hers  and  twinkled  into  a  smile 
at  her  nervous  gravity. 

"We  all  know  the  Professor;  there's  no  need  to  apolo 
gize.  Please  don't  stand." 

She  was  about  to  comply  with  his  request,  when  she  real 
ized  that  she  no  longer  held  his  attention.  He  was  staring 
past  her.  She  turned  her  head. 

"Oh,  allow  me  to  introduce  you,  Mr.  Barrington,  to  my 
friend,  Miss  Tudor." 

"I  thought  it  was."  His  tones  had  become  extraordi 
narily  glad.  "No  one  could  forget  little  Nan,  who'd  once 
known  her.  But  Nan,  you've  grown  older.  What  do  you 

9 


io  THE   RAFT 

mean  by  it?  It's  so  uncalled  for,  so  unexpected.  You're 
no  longer  the  Princess  Pepperminta  that  you  were." 

Nan  crossed  the  room  in  a  romping  bound  and  com 
menced  pumping  his  arm  up  and  down. 

"It's  Billy,  dear  old  Billy!  You  remember,  Jehane;  I've 
told  you.  Billy  who  sewed  up  father's  surplice,  and  Billy 
who  tied  knots  in  my  hair,  and  Billy  who,  when  I  got 
angry,  used  to  call  me  the  Princess  Pepperminta.  You 
made  yourself  so  detestable,  Billy,  that  our  village  talks 
about  you  even  now." 

"A  doubtful  compliment;  but  it's  ripping  to  see  you — 
simply  ripping." 

Jehane  stood  aside  and  watched  them.  She  had  heard 
Nan  talk  of  Billy  Barrington  and  how  her  father  had 
tutored  him  for  Oxford — but  that  must  be  twelve  years 
back.  She  had  never  known  him  herself  and  had  never 
been  very  curious  about  him.  But  now,  as  she  watched,  she 
felt  the  appeal  of  this  big,  broad-shouldered  boy  of  thirty. 

They  were  talking — talking  of  things  beyond  her  knowl 
edge,  things  which  shut  her  out. 

"And  why  didn't  you  write  in  all  these  years?  Father 
and  I  often  mentioned  you.  In  Cassingland  you  were 
an  event.  It  wasn't  kind  of  you,  Billy." 

"Things  at  home  were  in  such  a  mess.  I'd  to  start 
work  at  once.  Somehow,  with  working  so  hard,  other 
things  faded  out." 

"Poor  Nan  with  the  rest!" 

"No,  I  remembered  you.  'Pon  my  honor  I  did,  Nan; 
tiut  I  thought " 

"Yes  ?" 

"You  were  such  a  kid  in  those  days;  I  thought  you'd 
forgotten.  As  though  either  of  us  could  forget.  I  was 
an  ass." 

Jehane  had  turned  her  back  and  was  looking  out  of  the 
window.  For  the  first  time  she  envied  Nan — Nan,  the 
daughter  of  a  country  parson.  It  was  too  bad. 

"Miss  Usk." 

She  glanced  across  her  shoulder. 


"I'M    HALF    SICK   OF    SHADOWS"  n 

"We're  being-  intolerably  rude,  talking  all  about  our  own 
affairs.  You  see,  once  Nan  was  almost  my  sister.  How 
old  were  you,  Nan?  Thirteen,  wasn't  it?  And  I  was 
eighteen.  We've  not  met  since  then.  My  father  died 
•suddenly,  you  know.  I  had  to  step  into  his  shoes — they 
were  much  too  big  for  me.  That  was  the  end  of  Oxford 
and  Cassingland." 

"We  were  going  out  on  the  river,"  said  Jehane.  "Per 
haps  you'll  join  us.  I'll  sit  very  quiet  and  listen.  You 
can  talk  over  old  times  to  your  heart's  content." 

They  piled  his  arms  with  cushions,  and  together  set  out 
through  the  glistening  meadows  to  the  barges.  After  the 
rain,  the  air  was  intensely  still.  Sounds  carried  far;  from 
tall  trees  on  the  Broad  Walk  and  from  the  uttermost  dis 
tance  came  the  fluty  cry  of  birds,  from  the  river  the  rattle 
of  oars  being  banked,  and  from  every  side  the  slow  patter 
of  dripping  branches.  Like  a  canvas,  fresh  from  an  artist's 
brush,  colors  in  the  landscape  stood  out  distinct  and  wet — 
flowers  against  the  gray  walls  of  Corpus,  trunks  of  trees 
with  their  velvety  blackness  and  shorn  greenness  of  the 
Hinksey  Hills.  Men  in  disreputable  shorts,  returning  from 
the  boats,  passed  them.  Some  ran;  some  sauntered 
chatting. 

Barrington  laughed  shortly  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  themselves.  Nothing  to  do  but 
grow  a  fine  body  and  learn  to  be  gentlemen.  I  missed  all 
that.  After  the  rush  and  drive,  it's  topping  to  sink  back." 

"You're  right;  it  is  sleepy.  One  day's  just  like  the  next. 
We  stand  as  still  as  church-steeples.  People  come  and  go; 
we're  left.  We  exist  for  visitors  to  look  at,  like  the  Mar 
tyr's  Memorial  and  Calvary  Tower." 

He  glanced  down  at  Jehane  quickly:  she  interested  him 
— there  was  something  about  her  that  he  could  not  under 
stand.  The  long  penciled  brows,  the  thick  lashes,  the 
cloudy  eyes  and  the  straight,  pale  features  attracted  and 
yet  repelled  him.  He  felt  that  she  was  not  happy  and  had 
never  been  quite  happy.  The  natural  generosity  of  the 
man  made  him  eager  to  hear  her  speak  about  herself. 


12  THE    RAFT 

But  Jehane  was  aware  that  she  had  struck  a  discord  in 
what  she  had  said.  He  had  flinched  like  a  child,  with  whom 
the  thought  of  pain  had  not  yet  become  a  habit.  She  made 
haste  to  cover  up  her  error  by  directing  attention  to  him 
self. 

"But  you — what  are  you?" 

"I'm  a  pub." 

"A  pub !  But  you  can't  be.  You  don't  mean  that 
you " 

Nan  caught  his  arm  in  her  merriment  and  leant  across 
him.  "Of  course  he  doesn't.  He's  a  publisher.  He  always 
did  clip  his  words." 

"But  not  the  Barrington — father's  publisher?" 

"Yes,  the  Barrington.  It's  funny,  Jehane,  but  it  can't  be 
helped.  Anyhow,  he's  only  Billy  now." 

Barrington  stood  still,  eying  the  two  girls — the  one  fair 
and  all  mischief,  the  other  dark  and  serious.  "What's  the 
matter  with  you,  Miss  Usk?  Why  do  you  object?" 

"If  I  told  you,  you  might  not  like  it." 

"Rubbish." 

"Well  then,  you  ought  to  have  a  long  gray  beard  like 
father.  You're  not  old  enough." 

"I've  sometimes  thought  that  myself." 

"Billy's  always  been  young  for  his  age,"  said  Nan;  "he's 
minus  twenty  now." 

But,  as  they  walked  on,  Jehane  was  saying  to  herself, 
"Then  he  was  only  coming  to  see  father,  as  everybody 
comes !  It  wasn't  my  face  that  drew  him." 

They  strewed  the  cushions  on  the  floor  of  the  punt.  Bar 
rington  took  the  pole  and  Jehane  seated  herself  in  front 
so  that  she  could  face  him.  All  that  he  should  see  of  Nan's 
attractions  was  the  back  of  her  golden  head — Jehane  had 
arranged  all  that. 

They  swung  out  into  mid-stream  unsteadily;  Barring- 
ton  was  struggling  to  recover  a  forgotten  art.  Their  direc 
tion  was  erratic.  They  nearly  fouled  a  returning  eight ;  the 
maledictions  of  the  cox,  each  stinging  epithet  of  whose 
abuse  politely  ended  in  "sir,"  drew  unwelcome  attention  to 


"I'M    HALF    SICK   OF    SHADOWS"  13 

their  wandering  progress.  When  they  had  collided  with 
the  opposite  bank,  Nan  stood  up  and  took  the  pole  herself. 
Jehane  was  in  luck. 

She  had  often  pictured  such  a  scene  to  herself— a  man, 
herself,  and  a  punt  on  the  river;  in  these  pictures  she  had 
never  included  Nan.  She  had  heard  herself  brilliantly 
conversing,  saying  amusing  things  that  had  made  the  man 
laugh,  saying  deep  things  that  had  made  him  solemn ;  then, 
presently  she  had  ceased  to  torment  him,  his  arms  had 
gone  about  her,  and  she  had  lain  a  fluttering  wild  thing  on 
his  breast. 

Now,  in  reality,  she  had  nothing  to  say.  When  he  spoke, 
she  gave  him  short  answers.  She  was  not  mistress  of  her 
self.  She  trailed  her  hands  in  the  water  and  was  afraid  to 
look  up,  lest  he  should  guess  the  tumult  in  her  heart. 

The  punt  had  turned  out  of  the  main  stream  into  the 
Cherwell,  and  was  stealing  between  narrow  banks.  Jehane 
knew  that  she  was  appearing  sullen ;  she  always  appeared 
like  that  with  men.  In  her  mind's  eye  she  saw  herself  act 
ing  the  other  part  of  gay,  responsive  woman  of  the  world. 
She  was  angry  with  herself. 

Barrington,  hampered  by  her  embarrassment,  had  twisted 
round  on  his  cushions  and  was  chaffing  Nan.  Nan  was 
looking  her  best  and,  as  usual,  was  quite  unconscious  of  the 
fact.  In  her  loose,  blowy  muslin,  standing  erect,  leaning 
against  the  pole  with  the  water  dripping  from  her  hands, 
she  seemed  the  soul  of  summer  and  unspoilt  girlhood  against 
the  background  of  lazy  river  and  green  shadows.  There 
was  something  infantile  and  appealing  about  Nan.  Her 
flaxen  hair  fitted  her  like  a  shining  cap  of  satin.  Her  eyes 
were  inextinguishably  bright  and  blue;  above  them  were 
delicate,  golden  brows.  Her  red  lips  seemed  always  slightly 
parted,  ready  to  respond  to  mischief  or  merriment.  She 
was  small  in  build — the  kind  of  girl-woman  a  man  is 
tempted  to  pick  up  and  carry.  Her  chief  beauty  was  her 
long,  slim  throat  and  neck;  she  was  a  white  flower,  swaying 
from  a  fragile  stem.  It  was  impossible  to  think  that  Nan 
knew  anything  that  was  not  good. 


i4  THE    RAFT 

After  they  had  passed  under  Magdalen  Bridge  they  had 
the  river  very  much  to  themselves :  the  rain  had  driven  most 
of  the  voyagers  to  cover.  For  long  stretches  there  was 
no  sound  but  their  own  voices,  the  splash  of  the  pole  and 
the  secret  singing  of  birds. 

Jehane,  with  trailing  hands  and  brooding  eyes,  watched 
this  man ;  she  wanted  him — she  did  not  know  why — she 
wanted  him  for  herself.  Sometimes  she  became  so  concen 
trated  in  her  mood  that  she  forgot  to  listen  to  what  was 
being  said.  Through  her  head  went  humming  significant 
and  disconnected  stanzas,  which  she  repeated  over  and  over : 

"Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed : 

'I  am  half   sick  of   shadows,'  said 
The  Lady  of  Shalott." 

Jehane  had  once  been  told  that  she  was  Pre-Raphaelite 
in  appearance;  she  never  forgot  that — it  explained  her  to 
herself.  She  had  quarreled  forever  with  a  man  who  had 
said  that  Rossetti's  women  resulted  from  tuberculosis  of 
the  imagination.  The  truth  of  the  remark  was  unforgiv 
able — she  knew  that  she  herself  suffered  from  some  such 
spiritual  malady. 

A  question  roused  her  from  her  trance. 

"I  say,  Billy,  are  you  married  yet?" 

It  was  extraordinary  how  Jehane's  heart  pounded  as  she 
waited  for  the  question  to  be  answered. 

He  clasped  his  hands  in  supplication,  "Promise  not  to 
tell  my  wife  that  we  came  out  like  this  together." 

Nan  let  the  pole  trail  behind  her  and  gazed  down  at  him 
mockingly.  Her  face  was  flushed  with  the  exertion  of 
punting:  the  faint  gold  of  the  stormy  afternoon,  drifting 
through  gray  willows,  spangled  her  hair  and  dress.  "When 
you  like  you  can  make  yourself  as  big  an  ass  as  anyone. 
I  don't  believe  you  are  a  pub :  you're  a  big,  lazy  fellow 
playing  truant.  Answer  my  question." 

"But  Pepperminta,  why  should  I?" 

"Don't  call  me  ridiculous  names.     Answer  my  question." 


"I'M    HALF   SICK   OF    SHADOWS"  15 

Barrington  stretched  himself  indolently  on  the  cushions. 
"You've  not  changed  a  bit;  you're  just  as  funny  and  im 
perious  as  ever.  Soon  you'll  stamp  your  little  foot ;  when 
that  fails,  you'll  try  coaxing.  After  twelve  years  of  being 
away  from  you,  I  can  read  you  like  a  book." 

"You  can't;  I  never  coax  now.  I  scowl,  and  get  angry 
and  cruel." 

He  glanced  up  at  her  gentle,  laughing  face.  "You  couldn't 
make  your  face  scowl,  however  much  you  tried." 

Jehane  told  herself  that  they  were  two  children,  rehears 
ing  an  old  game  together.  People  must  be  very  fond  of 
one  another  to  play  a  game  of  pretending  to  quarrel.  She 
felt  strangely  grown  up  and  out  of  it,  and  quite  unreason 
ably  hurt.  Nan  was  surprising  her  at  every  turn.  % 

"You'll  enjoy  yourself  much  better,"  he  was  saying,  "if 
I  leave  you  in  suspense.  You  can  spend  your  time  in 
guessing  what  she  looks  like.  Then  you  can  start  watching 
me  closely  to  see  whether  I  love  her.  And  then  you  can 
wonder  how  much  I'm  going  to  tell  her  of  what  we  say  to 
each  other." 

Nan  jerked  the  punt  forward.  "I  don't  want  to  know. 
You  can  keep  your  secret  to  yourself."  Then,  glancing  at 
Jehane,  "I  say,  Janey,  you  ask  him.  He  can't  be  rude  to 
you.  He'll  have  to  answer." 

Jehane  had  no  option  but  to  enter  into  the  jest.  "I  know. 
Father  told  me.  Mr.  Barrington  is  a  widower." 

The  man's  eyes  flashed  and  held  hers  steadily;  they 
twinkled  with  surprise  and  humor.  "Go  on,  Miss  Usk; 
you  tell  her.  It's  altogether  too  sad." 

While  she  was  speaking,  she  was  excitedly  conscious  that 
he  was  examining  her  and  approving  her  impertinence. 
"Mr.  Barrington  married  his  mother's  parlor-maid  soon 
after  he  left  Cassingland.  She  was  a  beautiful  creature  and 
very  modest;  because  she  felt  herself  unworthy  of  the 
brilliant  Mr.  Barrington,  she  made  it  a  condition  of  their 
marriage  that  it  should  be  kept  secret.  Then  she  got  it  into 
her  head  that  she  was  spoiling  his  promising  'career, 
and Well,  she  died  suddenly — of  gas.  After  she  was 


16  THE    RAFT 

dead,  a  volume  of  poems  was  discovered — love  poems — and 
published  anonymously;  my  mother  attributes  them  to  Ba 
con  and  my  father  used  to  attribute  them  to  Shakespeare. 
Then  father  found  out,  but  he's  never  dared  to  tell  mother ; 
she  was  always  so  positive  about  it." 

Nan  had  stared  at  her  friend  while  she  was  talking. 
Could  this  be  the  serious  Jehane?  What  had  happened? 
At  the  end  she  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter.  "It  won't  do, 
old  girl;  you're  stuffing.  Billy  hasn't  got  a  mother." 

"And  he  isn't  married,"  he  said ;  "and  he  doesn't  want  to 
be  married  yet.  Now  are  you  content?" 

Jehane  was  not  content.  As  they  drifted  through  Meso 
potamia  with  its  pollard-willows,  sound  of  running  waters 
»and  constant  fluttering  of  birds,  she  kept  hearing  those 
words  "And  he  doesn't  want  to  be  married  yet."  Did  men 
ever  want  to  be  married,  or  was  it  always  necessary  to 
catch  them?  Catch  them!  It  sounded  horrid  to  put  it  like 
that,  and  robbed  love  of  all  its  poetry.  As  a  girl  with  a 
Pre-Raphaelite  appearance,  she  had  liked  to  believe  all  the 
legends  of  chivalry :  that  it  was  woman's  part  to  be  remote 
and  disdainful,  while -men  endangered  themselves  to  win 
her  favor.  But  were  those  legends  only  ideals — had  any 
thing  like  them  ever  happened?  And  supposing  a  woman 
wanted  to  catch  Barrington,  how  would  she  set  about  it? 

The  roar  of  water  across  the  lasher  at  Parsons'  Pleasure 
grew  louder,  drowning  the  conversation  which  was  taking 
place  in  low  tones  at  the  other  end  of  the  punt.  As  they 
drew  in  at  the  landing,  Jehane  bent  forward  and  heard 
Barrington  say,  "I  believe  you'd  have  been  disappointed  if 
I  had  been  married";  and  Nan's  retort,  "I  believe  I  should. 
You  know,  it  does  make  a  difference." 

Nan  turned  to  Jehane,  "What  are  we  going  to  do  next? 
There's  hardly  time  to  go  further." 

"Oh,  don't  go  back  yet,"  Barrington  protested;  "let's 
get  tea  at  Marston  Ferry." 

"But  who'll  take  the  punt  round  to  the  ladies'  landing? 
Ladies  aren't  allowed  through  Parsons'  Pleasure,  and  I 


"I'M    HALF    SICK    OF    SHADOWS"  17 

hardly  trust  you  to  come  round  by  yourself."  Nan  eyed 
him  doubtfully.  "You  may  be  a  good  pub,  but  you're  a 
rotten  punter." 

"Dash  it  all,  you  needn't  rub  it  in.  If  the  worst  comes  to 
the  worst,  I  shall  only  get  a  wetting." 

"You're  sure  you  can  swim?" 

"Quite  sure,  thanks." 

"Well,  good-by,  and  good  luck.  I  should  hate  to  lose 
you  after  all  these  years  of  parting." 

As  they  struck  out  along  the  path  across  the  island  and 
the  screen  of  bushes  shut  him  from  their  view,  Jehane 
felt  her  arm  taken. 

"Don't  you  like  him,  Janey?" 

"What  I've  seen  of  him,  yes." 

"I  was  afraid  you  didn't." 

"Whatever  made  you  think  that?" 

"Because  he  thought  it.     I  could  feel  that  he  thought  it." 

"But  I  did  nothing." 

"You  wore  your  touch-me-not-manners,  Janey.  You 
looked  so  tragic  and  black.  I  had  to  talk  my  head  off  to 
fill  in  the  awkwardnesses." 

"I  know  you  did ;  but  I  wasn't  sure  of  the  reason." 

Nan  glanced  up  quickly  and  her  eyes  filled;  the  blood 
surged  into  her  face  and  throat;  her  lips  trembled.  She 
pressed  her  cheek  coaxingly  against  the  tall  girl's  shoulder. 
"You  foolish  Jehane;  you're  jealous.  Why,  Billy  and  I 
use  to  eat  blackberries  out  of  each  other's  hands." 

Then  Jehane  relented.  Drawing  Nan  to  her  with  swift, 
protecting  passion,  she  kissed  the  wet  eyes  and  pouting 
mouth.  "You  dear  little  Nan,  I  was  jealous.  You're  so 
sweet  and  gentle ;  no  one  could  help  loving  you.  I  was 
angry  with  myself — angry  because  I'm  so  different." 

"So  much  cleverer,"  Nan  whispered. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  clever;  I'd  give  everything  I  possess 
to  look  as  good  and  happy  as  you." 

"But  you  are  good.  If  you  weren't,  we  shouldn't  all  love 
you." 


1 8  THE   RAFT 

"All?    It's  enough  that  you  do." 

When  Barrington  rounded  the  island,  he  found  them 
standing  oddly  near  together;  then  he  noticed  a  moist  ball 
of  handkerchief  crushed  in  Nan's  free  hand — and  he 
guessed. 


CHAPTER    III 
ALL  THE  WAY  FOR  THIS 

JEHANE  had  been  granted  her  wish  and  she  was  fright 
ened.  The  river  stretched  before  her,  a  lonely  ghost, 
glimmering  between  soaked  fields  and  beaten  countryside. 
The  rain-fall  must  have  been  heavy  in  the  hills,  for  the 
river  was  swollen  and  discolored :  branches,  torn  from 
overhanging  trees,  danced  and  vanished  in  the  swiftly 
moving  current.  With  evening  a  breeze  had  sprung  up, 
which  came  fitfully  in  gusts,  bowing  tall  rushes  that  waded 
in  the  stream,  so  that  they  whispered  "Hush."  In  the  dis 
tance,  above  clumped  tree-tops,  the  spires  of  Oxford 
speared  the  watery  sky;  red  stains  spread  along  white 
flanks  of  clouds — clouds  that  looked  like  chargers  spurred 
by  invisible  riders. 

The  man  of  whom  she  knew  so  little  and  whom  she  de 
sired  was  standing  at  her  side.  She  was  terrified.  She 
had  gained  her  wish — at  last  they  were  alone  together. 

Behind  them,  up  the  hill,  the  cosy  inn  nestled  among  its 
quiet  arbors.  Across  the  river  the  ferryman  sat  whistling, 
waiting  for  his  next  fare  to  come  up.  Moving  away 
through  misty  meadows  on  the  further  bank  a  white  speck 
fluttered  mothlike. 

"She'll  get  home  all  right,  don't  you  think?" 

"Why  not?    She  always  does." 

"But  it'll  be  late  by  the  time  she  reaches  Cassingland. 
She's  got  to  catch  the  tram  into  Oxford,  to  harness  up  and 
then  to  drive  out  to  the  rectory.  It'll  be  late  by  the  time 
she  arrives." 

"She'd  have  been  later  if  she'd  returned  by  river  with 
us. — See,  she's  waving  at  the  stile. — Girls  have  to  do  these 

19 


20  THE   RAFT 

things  for  themselves,  Mr.  Harrington,  if  they  have  no 
brothers." 

He  stroked  his  chin.  "Girls  who  have  no  brothers 
should  be  allotted  brothers  by  the  State." 

She  faced  him  daringly.  "I  should  like  that.  I  might 
ask  to  have  you  appointed  my  brother." 

"You  would,  eh  !  Seems  to  me  that's  what's  happened. — 
Funny  what  a  little  customer  Nan  is  for  making  her  friends 
the  friends  of  one  another:  she  was  just  the  same  in  the 
old  days.  One  might  almost  suspect  that  she'd  planned  this 
from  the  start — bringing  us  out  all  comfy,  and  leaving  us 
to  go  home  together. — But,  I  say,  can  you  punt?" 

"I  can,  but  I'm  not  going  to." 

He  stepped  back  from  her  involuntarily  and  eyed  her. 
There  was  a  thrill  of  excitement  in  her  clear  voice  that 
warned  and  yet  left  him  puzzled.  She  filled  him  with  dis 
comfort — discomfort  that  was  not  entirely  unpleasant. 
While  Nan  was  present,  she  had  been  watchful  and  silent; 
now  it  was  as  though  she  slipped  back  the  bars  of  her 
reticence  and  stepped  out.  He  tingled  with  an  unaccus 
tomed  sense  of  danger.  He  weighed  his  words  before  ex 
pressing  the  most  trifling  sentiment.  Usually  he  was  reck 
lessly  spontaneous;  now  he  feared  lest  his  motives  might 
be  mistaken.  What  did  she  want  of  him?  She  had  gazed 
down  from  the  window  and  beckoned  him  with  her  eyes — 
him,  a  stranger.  Whatever  it  was,  Nan  knew  about  it, 
and  had  cried  about  it  the  moment  his  back  was  turned. 
He  distrusted  anyone  who  made  Nan  cry. 

Silence  between  them  was  more  awkward  than  words — 
surcharged  with  subtle  promptings  that  words  disguised ; 
he  took  up  the  thread  of  their  broken  conversation. 

"If  you're  not  going  to  punt,  how  are  we  going  to  get 
back?  I'll  do  my  best,  but  you've  seen  what  a  duffer  I 
am." 

"We'll  sit  in  the  stern  and  paddle.  With  the  current 
running  so  strongly,  we  could  almost  drift  back." 

He  followed  her  down  the  slope.  She  walked  in  front, 
her  head  slightly  turned  as  though  she  listened  to  make 


ALL   THE    WAY    FOR   THIS  21 

sure  that  he  followed.  He  noticed  the  pride  of  her  hand 
some  body,  its  erectness  and  its  poise — how  it  seemed  to 
glide  across  the  grass  without  sound  or  motion.  He 
summed  her  up  as  being  abnormally  self-conscious  and  wil 
fully  undiscoverable.  He  wondered  whether  her  restraint 
hid  a  glorious  personality,  or  served  simply  as  a  disguise 
for  shallowness  of  mind. — And  while  he  analyzed  her 
thus,  she  was  scorning  herself  for  the  immodesty  of  her 
fear  and  dumbness. 

Kneeling  down  on  the  landing  to  unfasten  the  rope,  he 
pieced  his  words  together.  "I  ought  to  apologize  for  what 
I  implied  just  now.  It  must  have  sounded  horribly  un- 
gallant  to  suggest  that  you  should  work  while  I  sat  idle." 

She  did  not  answer  till  they  were  seated  side  by  side  in  the 
narrow  stern.  Taking  a  long  stroke  with  her  paddle,  she 
shot  a  searching  glance  at  him ;  the  veil  drew  back  from 
her  eyes,  revealing  their  smoldering  fire.  "That's  all  right. 
I  don't  trouble.  You  needn't  mind." 

Though  she  had  not  blamed  him,  she  had  not  excused 
him. 

Night  was  falling  early;  outlines  of  the  country  were  al 
ready  growing  vague.  Edges  of  things  were  blurred ;  from 
low-lying  meadows  silver  mists  were  rising.  In  the  great 
silence  grasses  rustled  as  cattle  stirred  them,  the  river  com 
plained,  and  a  solitary  belated  bird  swept  across  the  dusk 
with  a  dull  cry. 

It  was  dangerous  and  it  was  tempting — he  could  not 
avoid  personalities.  He  tried  to  think  of  other  things  to 
say,  but  they  refused  to  take  shape.  His  perturbation 
seemed  the  rumor  of  what  her  mind  was  enacting.  Sev 
eral  times  inquisitive  inquiries  were  on  the  tip  of  his 
tongue;  he  checked  them.  Then  her  body  lurched  against 
him;  their  shoulders  brushed. 

"You  have  a  beautiful  name." 

"Indeed!    You  think  so?" 

"For  me  it  has  only  one  association." 

Again  she  brushed  against  him.    He  caught  the  scent  of 


22  THE    RAFT 

her  hair  and,  in  the  twilight,  a  glimpse  of  the  heavy  droop 
ing  eyelids. 

"I  mean  that  poem  by  William  Morris — it's  all  about 
Jehane.  You  remember  how  it  runs :  'Had  she  come  all 
the  way  for  this' ?" 

"You're  frightened  to  continue.  Isn't  that  so?"  Her 
tones  were  cold  and  quiet.  "  'Had  she  come  all  the  way 
for  this,  to  part  at  last  without  a  kiss?' — I  remember.  It's 
all  about  dripping  woods  and  a  country  like  this,  with  a 
river  overflowing  its  banks,  and  a  man  and  a  girl  who  were 
parted  forever  'beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods.'  Jehane 
was  supposed  to  be  a  witch,  wasn't  she?  'Jehane  the 
brown !  Jehane  the  brown !  Give  us  Jehane  to  burn  or 

drown.'  There's  something  like  that  in  the  poem I 

suppose  I  make  you  think  only  of  tragic  things  ?" 

"Why  suppose  that?" 

"Because  I  do  most  people." 

"In  my  case  there's  no  reason  for  supposing  that.  I 
oughtn't  to  have  mentioned  it." 

"Oh  yes,  you  ought.  You  felt  it,  though  you  didn't  know 
it.  It's  unfortunate  for  a  girl  always  to  impress  people  as 
tragic,  don't  you  think  ?  Men  like  us  to  be  young.  You're 
so  young  yourself — that's  your  hobby,  according  to  Nan. — 
But  if  you  want  to  know,  you  yourself  made  me  think  of 
something  not  quite  happy — that's  what  kept  me  so  quiet 
on  the  way  up." 

"I  thought  I'd  done  something  amiss — that  perhaps  you 
were  offended  with  me  for  the  informal  way  in  which  I 
introduced  myself." 

She  gave  him  no  assurance  that  she  had  not  been  of 
fended. 

"Here's  what  you  made  me  think,"  she  said : 

"She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  through  the   room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 
She  look'd  down  to  Camelot." 


ALL   THE   WAY   FOR   THIS  23 

"Rather  nice,  isn't  it,  to  find  that  we've  had  such  a  cheer 
ful  effect  on  one  another?" 

"But — but  why  on  earth  should  I  make  you  think  of 
that?" 

She  left  off  paddling  and  glanced  away  from  him;  a 
little  shiver  ran  through  her.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice 
was  low-pitched  but  still  penetrating. 

"Let  me  ask  you  a  question.  Do  you  think  that  it's 
much  fun  being  a  girl?" 

"Never  thought  about  it." 

"Well,  it  isn't." 

"I  should  have  supposed  that,  for  anyone  who  was  young 
and  good-looking,  it  might  be  barrel-loads  of  fun  to  be  a 
girl  in  Oxford." 

"Well,  I  tell  you  that  it  isn't.  You're  always  wanting 
and  wanting — wanting  the  things  that  men  have,  and  that 
only  men  can  give  you.  But  they  keep  everything  for 
themselves  because  they're  like  you,  Mr.  Barrington — 
they've  never  thought  about  it." 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  understand." 

"Bother!  Why  d'you  force  me  to  be  so  explicit?  Take 
the  case  of  Nan — she's  one  of  thousands.  She's  got  noth 
ing  of  her  own — no  freedom,  no  money,  no  anything.  She's 
always  under  orders ;  she's  not  expected  to  have  any  plans 
for  her  future.  She  creeps  to  the  windows  of  the  world 
and  peeps  out  when  her  father  isn't  near  enough  to  prevent 
her.  Unless  she  marries,  she'll  always  be  prying  and  never 
sharing.  She's  a  Lady  of  Shalott,  shut  up  in  a  tower,  weav 
ing  a  web  of  fancies.  She  hears  life  tramp  beneath  her 
window,  traveling  in  plume  and  helmet  to  the  city.  Unless 
a  man  frees  her,  she'll  never  get  out. — Oh,  I  oughtn't  to 
talk  like  this ;  I  never  have,  to  anyone  except  to  Nan.  Why 
do  you  make  me?  Now  that  it's  said,  I  hate  myself." 

"Don't  do  that."  He  spoke  gently.  "I'm  glad  you've 
done  it.  You've  made  me  see  further.  We  men  always 
look  at  things  from  our  own  standpoint. — I  suppose  we're 
selfish." 

He  waited  for  her  to  deny  that  he  was  selfish. 


24  THE   RAFT 

"There's  no  doubt  about  it,"  she  affirmed. 

They  paddled  on  in  silence  till  they  came  to  the  lasher. 
Together  they  hauled  the  punt  over  the  rollers — there  was 
no  one  about.  When  it  had  taken  the  water  on  the  other 
side,  Jehane  stepped  in  quickly;  while  his  hands  and 
thoughts  were  unoccupied,  she  was  afraid  to  be  near  him. 
He  stood  on  the  bank,  holding  the  rope  to  keep  the  punt 
from  drifting;  his  head  was  flung  back  and  he  did  not  stir. 
Through  the  network  of  branches  moonlight  drifted,  mak 
ing  willows,  gnarled  and  twisted,  and  water,  rushing  foam- 
streaked  from  the  lasher,  eerie  and  fantastic.  He  was 
thinking  of  Nan  and  the  meaning  of  her  crying. 

"Miss  Usk,  it  was  very  brave  of  you  to  speak  out." 

She  laughed  perversely;  she  was  so  afraid  of  revealing 
her  emotion.  "You  must  have  queer  notions  about  me. 
I've  been  terribly  unconventional." 

They  drifted  down  stream  through  Mesopotamia,  pur 
sued  by  the  sandal-footed  silence.  When  Harrington  spoke 
to  her  now,  it  was  as  though  there  lay  between  them  a 
secret  understanding.  What  that  understanding  was  she 
scarcely  dared  to  conjecture.  Here,  alone  with  him  in  the 
moon-lit  faery-land  of  shadows,  she  was  supremely  at  peace 
with  herself. 

At  Magdalen  Bridge  they  tethered  the  punt;  it  was  too 
late  to  return  to  the  barges. 

Outside  her  father's  house  they  halted.  Through  the 
window  they  could  see  the  high-domed  forehead  of  the 
Professor,  as  he  sat  with  his  reading-lamp  at  his  elbow. 

"You'll  come  in?  You  had  some  business  with  father 
that  brought  you  down  from  London  ?" 

"But  it's  late.  If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  prefer  to  see  him 
to-morrow." 

"Are  you  staying  for  long  in  Oxford?" 

"I  hadn't  intended." 

"But  you  may?" 

"I  may.    It  all  depends." 

"Good-by  then — till  to-morrow." 

Professor  Usk   sank  his  head  as  she  entered,  that  he 


ALL   THE    WAY    FOR   THIS  25 

might  gaze  at  her  above  his  spectacles.  "Home  again, 
daughter  ?  Been  on  the  river  with  Nan,  they  tell  me !  It's 
late  for  girls  to  be  out  by  themselves." 

She  answered  hurriedly.    "Mr.  Harrington  was  with  us." 

"Ah,  Barrington !  Nice  fellow !  Did  he  say  anything 
about  my  book?" 

She  was  on  tenterhooks  to  be  by  herself.  "He'll  call  to 
morrow." 

"Have  you  been  running,  daughter?  You  seem  out  of 
breath.  I've  a  minute  or  two  to  spare ;  come  and  sit  down. 
Tell  me  what  you've  been  doing.  Did  Barrington  say 
whether  that  book  of  mine  had  gone  to  press  ?" 

She  backed  slowly  to  the  threshold  and  stood  with  the 
handle  in  her  hand. 

"I've  a  headache,  father." 

She  opened  the  door  and  fled. 

Locking  herself  in  her  room,  she  flung  herself  on  the  bed 
and  lay  rigid  in  the  darkness,  shaken  with  sobbing.  Press 
ing  her  lips  against  the  pillow  to  stifle  the  sound,  she  com 
menced  in  a  desperate  whisper,  "Oh  God,  give  him  to  me. 
Dear  God,  let  me  have  him.  Oh  God,  give " 


CHAPTER   IV 


WHEN  Barrington  called  on  the  Professor  next  morning, 
he  did  not  see  Jehane.  She  had  stayed  in  bed  for  break 
fast,  to  keep  out  of  his  way.  She  did  not  trust  herself  to 
meet  him  before  her  parents  because  of  her  face — it  might 
tell  tales.  She  was  strangely  ashamed  that  anyone  should 
know  of  her  infatuation.  And  yet  she  longed  to  meet  him 
that  she  might  experience  afresh  the  sweet  tingling  dread 
lest  he  should  touch  her.  Ah,  if  she  were  sure  that  he  re 
turned  her  love,  what  a  different  Jehane  he  should  dis 
cover.  .  .  . 

Though  she  did  not  meet  him,  she  espied  him  the  mo 
ment  he  turned  into  the  street.  Peering  stealthily  from 
behind  the  curtain,  she  was  glad  to  notice  that  he  glanced 
up,  as  though  conscious  that  her  hidden  eyes  were  watch 
ing.  Listening  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  she  heard  his  voice. 
She  heard  him  inquire  after  her,  and  tried  to  estimate  his 
disappointment  and  anxiety  when  her  father  answered 
casually,  "The  daughter  has  one  of  her  headaches.  .  .  . 
No,  nothing  much.  She  may  not  be  down  this  morning." 

After  he  had  left,  she  was  angry  with  herself  for  her 
cowardice.  She  ought  to  have  seized  her  opportunity. 
Perhaps  he  was  returning  at  once  to  London,  where  he 
would  quickly  forget  her.  She  might  never  see  him  again. 

By  a  kind  of  necromancy  she  tried  to  arrive  at  certainty 
as  to  whether  or  no  he  would  marry  her.  If  she  could 
count  a  hundred  before  a  cart  passed  a  particular  lamp 
post,  then  he  would  become  her  husband.  When  the  cart 
went  too  fast  for  her  counting,  she  skipped  numbers  and 
cheated  in  order  to  make  the  test  propitious.  Sitting  in  her 

26 


LOVE'S    SHADOW  27 

bedroom,  partly  dressed,  with  the  brilliant  summer  sunshine 
streaming  over  her,  she  invented  all  kinds  of  similar  ex 
periments. 

At  last  she  grew  impatient  of  her  own  company  and 
came  downstairs  to  lunch.  Her  dreamy  mother,  who  usu 
ally  noticed  nothing,  embarrassed  her  by  remarking  that 
her  face  was  flushed  as  though  she  were  sickening  for 
something.  She  turned  attention  from  herself  by  inquiring 
the  result  of  her  father's  interview  with  Mr.  Barrington. 

Her  father  was  annoyed  because  his  book  had  been  de 
layed  in  publication — quite  unwarrantably  delayed,  he  said. 
She  could  not  get  him  to  state  whether  Barrington  had  gone 
back  to  London.  The  conversation  developed  into  an  in 
dictment  of  the  innate  trickiness  of  publishers.  Mrs.  Usk 
had  never  been  able  to  reconcile  the  place  she  occupied  in 
the  world  of  letters  with  the  smallness  of  her  royalty-state 
ments.  It  almost  made  her  doubt  the  financial  honesty  of 
some  persons.  Jehane  had  listened  with  angry  eyes  while 
these  two  impractical  scholars,  comfortably  interrupting 
one  another  across  the  table,  swelled  out  the  sum  of  their 
grievances.  Now  she  took  up  the  cudgels  so  personally  and 
so  passionately  in  the  defense  of  publishers  in  general,  and 
Barrington  in  particular,  that  she  was  moved  to  tears  by 
her  eloquence. 

Her  parents  peered  at  her  out  of  their  dim  eyes  in  con 
cerned  silence.  When  the  tears  had  come,  they  nodded  at 
each  other,  bleating  in  chorus,  "She  is  not  well.  She  is 
flushed.  She  is  certainly  sickening  for  something.  She 
must  go  to  bed.  The  doctor  must  be  summoned." 

Jehane  pushed  back  her  chair.  "You'll  do  nothing  of  the 
kind.  I'm  quite  well." 

After  she  had  made  her  escape,  it  was  discovered  that 
she  had  eaten  nothing.  In  a  few  minutes  she  reappeared 
in  her  out-door  attire  and  announced  that  she  was  going  to 
Cassingland. 

"But,  my  dear,  you  can't,"  her  mother  protested ;  "not 
in  your  state.  You  may  give  it  to  Nan ;  it  may  be  catching. 
And  then,  think  how  Mr.  Tudor  would  blame  us." 


28  THE   RAFT 

Jehane  tapped  with  her  foot  impatiently.  "Don't  be 
silly,  mother.  I'm  going." 

And  with  that  she  departed.  Only  one  of  the  witnesses 
of  this  scene  conjectured  its  true  cause — Betty,  the  house 
maid,  who  on  more  than  one  occasion  had  watched  these 
same  symptoms  develop  in  herself. 

At  the  stable  where  her  father's  horse  was  baited  Jehane 
ordered  out  the  dog-cart.  She  did  not  know  why  she  was 
going  to  Cassingland.  Certainly  she  did  not  intend  to 
make  Nan  her  confidant — the  frenzy  of  love  is  contagious. 
But  Nan  must  know  many  pages  of  Barrington's  past,  the 
whole  of  which  was  a  closed  book  to  her.  Without  giving 
away  her  secret,  they  might  discuss  him  together. 

As  she  drove  along  the  Woodstock  road  and  turned  off 
into  the  leafy  Oxford  lanes,  she  laid  her  plans.  She  would 
affect  to  have  found  him  dull  company  in  the  journey  back 
from  Marston  Ferry;  she  would  be  surprised  that  anyone 
should  think  him  interesting.  Then  Nan,  with  her  sensitive 
loyalty  to  friends,  would  prove  the  splendor  of  his  char 
acter  with  facts  drawn  from  her  own  experience. 

Down  the  road  ahead  a  man  was  striding  in  the  direction 
in  which  she  was  driving.  At  the  sound  of  wheels  he 
turned  and,  standing  to  one  side,  raised  his  hat.  Blood 
flooded  her  cheeks.  Her  instinct  was  to  dash  by  him.  She 
could  not  endure  his  attitude  of  secure  comradeship.  He 
must  be  everything  to  her  at  once  or  nothing.  Her  eyes 
fell  away  from  his,  yet  she  longed  to  return  his  gaze  with 
frankness. 

"I'm  in  luck.  When  I  called  this  morning,  the  Professor 
told  me  you  were  unwell." 

"I'm  better." 

"I'm  glad.  I've  been  blaming  myself  for  not  taking 
sufficient  care  of  you." 

Had  he  chosen,  he  could  have  crushed  her  to  him  then; 
she  was  made  so  happy  that  she  would  not  have  protested. 
But  how  was  he  to  judge  this  from  the  proud,  almost  sullen 
face  that  watched  him  from  the  dog-cart? 

He  looked  up  at  her  cheerfully.     "Bound  for  the  same 


LOVE'S    SHADOW  29 

place,  aren't  we?  I'm  tired  of  pounding  along  by  myself; 
if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  jump  in  and  let  you  drive  me." 

She  nodded  ever  so  slightly  and  he  swung  himself  up. 

"Going  to  Nan's  ?" 

"To  Cassingland,"  he  assented.  "I  want  to  see  for  my 
self  the  lady  in  her  tower.  D'you  know,  I  can't  get  that 
out  of  my  head — all  that  you  told  me  about  girls." 

"Really." 

She  spoke  indifferently  and  flicked  the  horse  with  the 
whip,  so  that  it  started  forward  with  a  jerk. 

"You're  not  very  curious.  You  don't  ask  me  why  I 
can't  forget." 

"Why?" 

"Because,  with  other  conditions,  it's  equally  true  of  men." 

"I  don't  believe  that." 

"You  will  when  I've  told  you.  To  get  on  nowadays  a 
fellow's  got  to  work  day  and  night." 

"You're  ambitious  ?" " 

"Of  course  I  am.  I  want  to  have  power.  I've  not  had 
a  real  holiday  for  years.  Of  course  I've  money,  which 
you  say  girls  don't  have;  but  I've  responsibilities.  I  know 
nothing  of  women — I've  had  no  time  to  learn.  That's  why 
I'm  so  grateful  to  you  for  yesterday.  With  me  it's  just 
work,  work,  work  to  win  a  position,  so  that  one  day  some 
woman  may  be  happy.  So  you  see,  I  have  my  tower  as 
well  as  Nan,  where  I'm  doomed  to  spin  my  web  of  fancy." 

"But  men  choose  their  own  towers — build  them  for  them 
selves." 

"Don't  you  believe  it.  Some  few  may,  but  so  do  some 
few  girls.  I  wanted  to  go  to  Oxford  and  to  write  books 
and  to  be  a  scholar,  instead  of  which  I  publish  other  men's 
scribblings  and  do  my  best  to  sell  'em." 

"I  never  thought  ...  I  mean  I  thought  all  men  .  .  , 
But  you're  strong:  if  any  man  could  have  chosen,  you 
would  have  done  it.  Tell  me  about  yourself." 

And  he  told  her — his  dreams,  anxieties,  small  triumphs, 
and  incessant  round  of  daily  duties.  He  was  very  fine  and 
gentle,  speaking  with  touching  eagerness,  as  though  confes- 


30  THE    RAFT 

sion  were  a  privilege  which  he  rarely  allowed  himself.  Yet 
Jehane  was  not  content;  she  knew  that  in  love  the  instinct 
for  confession  is  coupled  with  the  instinct  for  secretive- 
ness.  When  she  touched  him,  he  was  not  disturbed  as  she 
was;  his  voice  did  not  quiver — he  did  not  change  color. 
She  told  herself  that  men  were  the  masters,  so  that  even 
in  love  they  showed  no  distrust  of  themselves.  But  the 
explanation  was  not  convincing. 

They  were  nearing  Cassingland.  Ambushed  in  trees, 
rising  out  of  somnolent  lowlands,  the  thin,  tall  spire  of  a 
church  sunned  itself.  Like  toys,  tumbled  from  a  sack, 
about  which  grass  had  grown  up,  cottages  lay  scattered 
throughout  the  meadows.  As  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
triangular  green,  with  the  tidy  rectory  standing,  high- 
walled,  on  its  edge,  their  conversation  faltered. 

He  offered  her  his  hand  to  help  her  out.  She  held  back 
for  a  second,  then  took  it  with  ashamed  suddenness.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  hers  with  a  boy's  enthusiasm. 

"Miss  Usk,  it's  awfully  decent  of  you  to  have  listened 
to  me." 

"It's  you  who've  been  decent.  You  make  everything  so 
easy.  You  seem  .  .  .  seem  to  understand." 

He  was  puzzled.  "I've  done  nothing  but  talk  at  un 
pardonable  length  about  myself.  As  for  making  things 
easy,  it's  you — you're  so  rippingly  sensible." 

She  winced.  No  man  falls  in  love  with  a  woman  for 
her  sanity.  It  was  as  though  he  had  called  her  middle- 
aged  or  robust.  She  wanted  to  appeal  to  him  as  weak  and 
clinging.  When  people  are  in  love  they  are  far  from  sen 
sible  ;  she  knew  that  she  was  anything  but  sensible  at  pres 
ent.  If  he  had  told  her  she  was  capricious  and  charming, 
she  would  have  shown  him  a  face  exultant. 

Nan  came  tripping  to  the  gate.  "This  is  jolly — both  of 
you  together!" 

Her  coming  was  inappropriate ;  for  the  next  few  months 
all  her  appearances  were  to  prove  ill-timed  so  far  as  Jehane 
was  concerned.  And  yet,  what  was  to  be  done?  Professor 
Usk's  house  was  too  subdued  in  its  atmosphere  to  be  con- 


LOVE'S    SHADOW  31 

genial.  Moreover,  the  Professor  invariably  monopolized 
a  man  who  was  his  guest — especially  when  the  man  was  a 
publisher.  Then  again,  Jehane  was  painfully  aware  that 
she  was  awkward  in  the  presence  of  her  parents,  and  did 
not  create  her  best  impression.  So  she  did  not  encourage 
Barrington  to  call  on  her  in  Oxford.  Naturally  she  turned 
to  Cassingland,  where  you  had  the  wide  free  country,  and 
no  one  suspected  or  watched  you  because  you  were  friendly 
with  a  man.  Cassingland  furnished  an  excuse  for  both  of 
them :  Nan  was  her  friend ;  Mr.  Tudor  had  been  his  tutor. 
Mr.  Tudor,  with  his  honest,  farmer-like  appearance  and 
frayed  clericals,  lent  an  air  of  propriety  to  proceedings. 
And  Nan — she  helped  the  propriety;  but  she  never  knew 
when  she  was  not  wanted.  She  spoke  of  Barrington  as 
Billy.  She  took  his  arm  and  snuggled  against  him  with 
a  naive  air  of  mischief,  leading  him  to  all  the  spots  along 
the  river,  in  the  garden  and  scattered  through  the  fields, 
which  years  ago  had  formed  their  playground.  Jehane 
resented  her  innocent  air  of  belonging  to  him.  So,  very 
frequently  when  Barrington  came  down  from  London  and 
she  drifted  out,  as  if  by  accident,  to  the  rectory,  she  wore 
the  mask  of  reserve  and  sullenness,  and  did  not  show  to 
best  advantage. 

Barrington,  for  his  part,  was  always  equal  in  his  temper 
— too  equal  for  Jehane.  With  Nan  he  was  gay  and  frivo 
lous  ;  to  her  he  was  grave  and  deferential.  She  wished  he 
would  display  more  ardor  and  less  caution.  If  it  had  been 
in  her  nature,  she  would  have  made  the  running;  she  was 
pained  by  his  unvarying  respect. 

All  summer  love's  shadow  had  rested  on  her.  It  was 
September  now  ;  the  harvest  lay  cut  in  the  fields  ready  to  be 
carried.  Nan  had  sent  Jehane  a  message  that  morning  that 
Barrington  was  expected ;  so  here  she  was  once  more  at 
the  rectory,  spending  the  week-end. 

They  had  gone  up  to  bed,  leaving  the  men  to  smoke; 
suddenly  Nan  put  on  her  dress,  saying  that  she  heard  her 
father  calling.  Jehane  prepared  for  bed  slowly ;  by  the 
time  she  was  ready  to  slip  between  the  sheets  Nan  had  not 


32  THE   RAFT 

returned.  She  blew  out  the  candle ;  the  room  was  instantly 
suffused  with  liquid  moonlight  and  velvet  shadow.  In  the 
darkness,  as  often  happens,  her  senses  became  sharpened — 
she  heard  a  multitude  of  sounds.  Somewhere  near  the 
church,  probably  from  the  tower,  an  owl  was  hooting.  In 
the  distance  a  dog  barked.  She  could  hear  the  wash  of  the 
river  among  its  rushes,  and  the  padding  of  a  footstep  on 
the  lawn.  Romance  in  her  was  stirred. 

Going  to  the  window,  she  leant  out ;  she  was  greeted  by 
the  strong  fragrance  of  roses.  Sheaves,  standing  in  rows 
throughout  the  fields,  looked  like  a  sleeping  camp.  Trees, 
save  where  mists  thumbed  them,  were  etched  distinctly 
against  the  indigo  horizon.  The  white  disc  of  the  moon, 
like  a  paper  lantern,  hung  balanced  between  the  edges  of 
two  clouds.  Its  light,  streaming  down  the  sky,  was  like 
milk  poured  across  black  marble.  Nature  seemed  to  have 
blinded  her  eyes  and  to  hold  her  breath. 

Across  the  lawn  from  the  open  study  window,  a  shaft 
of  gold  slanted,  making  the  darkness  on  either  side  intense 
by  contrast.  As  Jehane  listened,  she  heard  what  seemed 
a  panting  close  to  the  wall  beneath  her.  She  leant  further 
out  and  discerned  a  blur  of  white.  She  was  about  to  speak 
when  the  red  glow  of  a  cigar,  thrown  down  among  the 
bushes,  warned  her. 

"At  last!  You've  never  given  me  a  chance  to  be  alone 
with  you.  I've  wanted  you  all  summer,  little  Nan." 

His  arms  were  round  her.  As  he  stooped  above  her,  her 
face  was  blotted  out  .  .  .  He  was  speaking  again. 

"Your  father  saw  it.  That's  why  he  called  you.  ...  If 
I'd  had  to  wait  much  longer,  I  should  have  asked  you  be 
fore  her.  Why — why  would  you  never  let  us  be  alone  to 
gether?" 

Nan's  voice  came  muffled  beneath  his  kisses.  "Because, 
Billy  darling,  I  wanted  to  play  fair." 

"Fair?" 

An  answer  followed,  so  softly  whispered  that  it  did  not 
carry — a  surprised  exclamation  from  the  man. 

Jehane  had  tiptoed  from  the  window. 


33 

With  her  black  hair  tumbled  about  her.,  her  hands  pressed 
against  her  mouth,  she  lay  sobbing.  The  night  had  lost  its 
magic.  .  .  . 

Nan  entered  the  room  stealthily.  She  glanced  toward 
the  bed.  Thinking  Jehane  was  sleeping,  she  did  not  light 
the  candle,  but  commenced  to  fumble  at  her  fastenings,  un 
dressing  in  the  dark.  A  sob  refused  to  be  stifled  any  longer. 
Nan  paused  in  her  undressing  and  stood  tense;  then  ran 
and  bent  above  the  bed.  Seizing  Jehane  by  the  shoulders, 
she  tried  to  turn  her  face  toward  her. 

"Oh,  Janey,  I  did,  I  did  play  fair.  I  told  you  every  time 
he  was  coming.  .  .  .  Say  you'll  still  be  friends." 

But  Jehane  said  nothing. 

Next  morning  she  greeted  Barrington  with  her  accus 
tomed  mixture  of  proud  restraint  and  sullenness.  "We've 
been  expecting  this  all  summer.  We  wondered  when  it 
would  happen.  I  hope  you'll  be  very  happy." 

After  that  she  came  less  frequently  to  Cassingland.  The 
lovers  had  long  walks,  uninterrupted,  unaccompanied.  Once 
he  told  Nan,  "I  can't  believe  it,  Pepperminta.  I'm  sure 
you  were  mistaken." 

"But  I  wasn't."    She  shook  her  curly  head  sadly. 

They  rarely  mentioned  Jehane.  They  knew  that  she  was 
troubled ;  but  they  knew  of  no  way  in  which  to  help. 

At  Christmas,  when  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  they  were 
married. 

Nan,  who  had  never  feared  spinsterhood  greatly,  had 
escaped  from  it.  Jehane  retired  to  the  isolation  which  she 
sometimes  called  her  tower,  and  at  other  times  her  raft. 
She  often  told  herself  savagely  that,  had  it  not  been  for 
her  shyness  in  instancing  Nan  instead  of  herself  on  that 
journey  down  from  Marston  Ferry,  she  might  have  been 
the  bride  at  that  wedding.  Secretly,  she  was  bitter  about 
it;  outwardly,  she  kept  up  her  friendship — otherwise  she 
would  have  seen  no  more  of  Barrington. 


CHAPTER   V 
ENTER   PETER  AND  GLORY 

BARRINGTON  did  everything  on  a  large  scale — he  knew 
he  was  going  to  be  a  big  man.  He  arranged  his  surround 
ings  with  an  eye  to  his  expanding  future.  It  was  so  when 
he  bought  his  house  at  Topbury. 

It  had  more  rooms  than  he  could  furnish— more  than 
a  young  married  couple  could  comfortably  occupy.  But 
he  intended  to  spend  his  entire  life  there,  hanging  the  walls 
with  memories  and  associations  of  affection.  It  would  be 
none  too  large  for  a  growing  family.  That  was  Barring- 
ton  all  over;  he  planned  and  looked  ahead. 

The  house  stood  high  in  the  north  of  London ;  it  was 
one  of  twenty  in  a  terrace — all  with  porches  and  areas  in 
front,  and  long  walled  gardens  at  the  back.  To-day  the 
octopus  suburbs,  throwing  out  tentacles  of  small  mean 
dwellings,  have  crept  across  the  broad  views  and  strangled 
the  rural  aspect.  But  when  Nan  and  Barrington  went  to 
live  there,  they  looked  out  from  their  back-windows  uninter 
rupted  across  the  Vale  of  Holloway  to  Gospel  Oak  and  the 
Heath  at  Hampstead.  The  approach  to  Topbury  Terrace 
was  through  quiet  fields  where  sheep  were  grazing.  The 
oldest  inhabitants  still  talked  of  a  group  of  shops  as  Top- 
bury  Village.  Many  of  the  roads  were  private ;  traffic  was 
kept  back  by  gates  or  posts  planted  across  them. 

The  house  was  a  hundred  years  old,  spacious  and  lofty. 
It  had  the  sturdy  look  of  Eighteenth  Century  handiwork. 
Though  standing  in  a  terrace,  it  retained  its  own  personal 
ity  and  seemed  to  hold  itself  aloof  from  its  neighbors. 
Once  link-boys  had  stood  before  its  doors  and  coaches  had 
rumbled  through  Islington  Village  out  from  London,  bring- 

34 


ENTER    PETER   AND    GLORY  35 

ing  its  master  home  from  routs  and  functions.  Probably 
he  was  a  portly  merchant,  accompanied  by  a  dame  who 
wore  patches. 

Adjoining  its  bedrooms  were  powder-cupboards  ;  its  lower 
windows  were  heavily  grated  against  attack.  All  the  en 
tries  were  massively  screened  and  bolted.  It  seemed  to 
boast  its  privacy.  In  the  garden  were  pear-trees,  a  mul 
berry  and  a  cedar.  At  the  bottom  of  the  garden  was  a 
stable  with  stalls  for  three  horses. 

At  first  Nan  was  rather  awed — she  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  it.  Many  of  the  rooms  remained  unfurnished. 
That  was  to  be  done  slowly,  by  picking  up  old  and  rare 
articles — pictures  and  tapestries  as  they  could  afford  them, 
a  piece  here  and  a  piece  there :  this  was  to  be  their  hobby. 
She  was  frightened  by  so  much  emptiness,  and  clung  to  her 
husband,  puzzled  and  proud.  Then,  gradually,  she  began  to 
understand :  they  were  planning  for  the  future  greatness 
which  they  were  to  share.  She  was  no  longer  frightened; 
she  was  glad. 

There  was  one  room  in  which  they  often  sat.  Some 
times  they  would  visit  it  separately  and  surprise  one  an 
other.  When  they  entered,  they  became  strangely  bashful 
and  childlike — it  was  holy  ground.  They  left  all  their 
cruder  ambitions  on  the  threshold.  They  stopped  talking  or 
conversed  in  whispers,  holding  hands.  It  was  on  a  half- 
story,  between  the  first  floor  and  the  second,  and  looked 
into  the  garden.  Up  the  wall  outside  a  magnolia  clam 
bered;  against  its  window  a  laburnum  tapped  and  shed  its 
golden  tassels.  Everything  was  waiting  for  someone  who 
was  some  day  coming.  A  high  guard  stood  about  the  hearth 
to  prevent  someone,  when  he  began  to  toddle,  from  falling 
into  the  fire  and  getting  burnt.  A  little  bed  was  ready — a 
bed  so  tiny  that  you  could  lift  it  with  one  hand.  On  the 
floor  toys  lay  scattered.  Everything  had  been  thought  out 
for  his  reception  long  before  he  warned  them  of  his  com 
ing.  To  bring  home  new  toys  and  leave  them  there  for 
Nan  to  discover  was  one  of  Barrington's  absurd  ways  of 
telling  her  how  much  he  loved  her. 


36  THE   RAFT 

It  was  in  that  room  that  they  kissed  after  their  first 
quarrel.  It  was  there  she  told  him  that  the  little  hands 
were  being  fashioned  that  were  to  be  held  so  fast  in  theirs. 

And  he  came  one  bright  February  morning,  when  cro 
cuses  were  standing  bravely  above  the  turf  and  a  warm 
spring  wind  was  blowing.  Nan  hugged  him  to  her  breast, 
smiling  and  crying — she  was  so  glad  he  was  a  man.  They 
called  him  Peter — after  the  house  his  father  said,  because 
the  house  was  Peterish  and  old-fashioned.  William  was 
sure  to  be  contracted  to  Bill  or  Billy ;  one  Billy  wa's  enough 
in  any  family 

It  was  shortly  after  the  birth  of  Peter  that  Jehane  caught 
her  man.  It  was  said  that  she  married  him  on  the  re 
bound,  for  she  never  ceased  loving  Barrington.  She  did 
it  more  to  get  off  the  raft,  and  to  show  that  she  could  do  it, 
than  for  anything. 

Captain  Bobbie  Spashett  had  seen  her  portrait  in  a 
friend's  house.  He  was  under  orders  to  sail  for  India.  He 
had  six  weeks  in  which  to  make  her  acquaintance,  do  his 
courting  and  get  over  the  wedding.  He  proved  himself  a 
man  of  energy,  managing  the  business  with  a  soldier's  dash. 
Then  he  sailed  for  India,  promising  to  send  for  her  when 
he  was  settled.  Unfortunately,  before  the  year  was  out, 
he  died  in  action. 

In  February,  almost  on  the  anniversary  of  Peter's  birth, 
his  daughter  came  into  the  world.  Jehane  named  her 
Glory,  because  of  the  distinguished  nature  of  her  father's 
death. 

When  Captain  Spashett's  affairs  came  to  be  settled,  it 
was  found  that  he  had  left  his  widow  something  less  than 
a  thousand  pounds  from  all  sources. 

Then  Jehane  discovered  that,  in  stepping  off  the  raft, 
she  had  not  reached  the  land.  She  went  to  live  with  her 
parents. 


CHAPTER   VI 
JEHANE'S   SECOND   MARRIAGE 

IT  was  his  own  fault ;  he  knew  it  in  after  years.  Bar- 
rington  was  partly  responsible  for  Jehane's  second  mar 
riage.  It  was  he  who  suggested  that,  since  Jehane  was  not 
happy  with  her  parents,  it  would  be  decent  to  ask  her  up 
to  Topbury  for  Christmas. 

Did  he  like  her?  Well,  hardly!  He  felt  that  she  bore 
him  a  grudge.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  he 
and  Nan  had  a  guilty  sense.  They  were  so  happy — they 
had  everything  that  she  coveted  and  lacked. 

They  asked  her  by  way  of  atonement.  When  she  ob 
jected  that  Glory  would  be  a  nuisance,  they  replied  that 
Glory  would  be  fun  for  Peter. — And  it  was  he  who,  in  the 
goodness  of  his  heart,  invited  Waffles. 

Ocky  Waffles  was  not  his  sort.  His  very  name  was  a 
handicap.  A  man  named  Waffles  could  scarcely  command 
respect ;  but  the  Christian  name  made  it  worse.  How  could 
anyone  called  Ocky  Waffles  be  a  gentleman?  He  was  his 
cousin,  however,  and  lived  alone  in  London  lodgings.  His 
mother  was  recently  dead.  Whatever  his  shortcomings,  he 
had  been  an  attentive  son.  The  chap  would  be  rottenly 
lonely,  thought  Barrington.  Unadulterated  Ocky  he  could 
not  stand ;  but,  if  he  could  jumble  him  up  in  a  family-party 
and  so  get  him  diluted,  he  would  be  very  glad  to  do  him  a 
service.  In  the  uncalculating  days  of  boyhood  they  had 
been  warm  friends.  So  Mr.  Tudor  was  persuaded  to  come 
from  Cassingland  and  Ocky  was  invited. 

In  her  twenty-eighth  year,  Jehane  traveled  to  Padding- 
ton  en  route  for  her  second  adventure  in  matrimony.  Glory 
was  with  her,  a  golden-haired  baby  just  beginning  to  tod- 

37 


38  THE   RAFT 

die,  the  image  of  her  soldier  father.  Jehane  still  wore 
mourning — deepest  black,  with  white  frills  at  her  wrist 
bands  and  a  white  ruff  about  her  neck.  Black  suited  her 
pale  complexion — it  lent  her  the  touch  of  helpless  pathos 
that  her  beauty  had  always  wanted.  Her  manner  was 
hushed  and  gentle,  matching  her  costume.  Her  large,  dark 
eyes  had  that  forlorn  expression  of  "Oh,  I  can  never  for 
get,"  which  has  so  often  sealed  the  fate  of  an  unmarried 
man.  You  felt  at  once  that  the  finest  deed  possible  would 
be  to  bring  her  happiness.  At  least,  so  felt  Waffles. 

But  that  Christmas  there  were  times  when  she  did  forget. 
In  her  new  surroundings,  where  she  and  Glory  were  no 
longer  burdens,  she  grew  almost  merry.  When  memory 
clouded  her  eyes  and  restored  the  sternness  of  tragedy,  it 
was  not  Bobbie  Spashett  she  remembered,  who  had  died  a 
very  gallant  gentleman,  fighting  for  his  country;  it  was 
simply  that,  with  proper  care,  Nan's  shoes  might  have  been 
hers.  When  she  saw  Barrington  slip  his  arm  about  his 
wife,  and  heard  her  whisper,  "Oh,  please,  Billy,  not  now," 
it  made  her  wild  with  envy.  She  felt  that  it  was  more 
than  she  could  bear.  She  was  unloved,  and  so  was  Waf 
fles  ;  they  had  this  in  common,  despite  dissimilarities. 

Ocky  Waffles  was  a  kind-hearted  lounger.  He  was  al 
ways  late  for  everything — which  left  him  plenty  of  time  to 
devote  to  her.  His  best  friends  would  never  have  accused 
him  of  refinement.  His  mind  was  untidy;  he  was  lazy  and 
ineffectual.  His  faculty  for  conversation  was  childish — he 
babbled.  He  was  continually  making  silly  jokes  at  which 
he  laughed  himself.  Because  the  world  rarely  laughed 
with  him,  he  believed  that  his  bump  of  humor  was  ab 
normally  developed.  He  had  met  only  one  person  as 
humorous  as  himself — his  mother;  she,  admiring  and  loyal 
old  lady,  had  laughed  till  the  tears  came  at  anything  he  said. 
But  she  was  dead;  he  had  lost  his  audience.  He  missed 
her  and  was  extremely  sorry  for  Ocky  Waffles.  No  one 
understood  his  catch-phrases  now,  "Reaching  after  the 
mustard,"  and,  "Look  at  father's  pants."  They  did  not 
even  know  to  what  they  referred ;  he  had  to  explain  every- 


JEHANE'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE  39 

thing.  There  was  an  element  of  absurdity  and  weak  pathos 
about  the  man;  when  one  of  his  jokes  had  missed  fire  he 
would  dab  his  eyes,  saying  with  a  catch  in  his  throat,  "Oh 
dear,  how  mother'd  have  split  her  sides  at  that !" 

Jehane  was  genuinely  moved  to  compassion.  Sinking 
her  voice,  she  would  lead  him  aside  and  whisper,  "Tell  it 
again,  Mr.  Waffles.  I  think  I  could  understand." 

Before  Ocky  met  her,  the  denseness  of  his  friends  had 
driven  him  to  public  houses,  where  other  tales  might  be 
told  without  shocking  anybody.  With  barmaids  he  could 
pass  for  a  "nut,"  a  witty  fellow.  Grief  drove  him  to  it, 
he  told  himself.  He  was  well  aware  that  public  houses 
were  bad  for  his  pocket  and  worse  for  his  health.  When 
Jehane  seemed  to  applaud  him,  his  thoughts  naturally 
turned  to  marriage — marriage  would  cure  every  evil,  and 

then Oh,  then  he  would  become  like  Barrington,  with 

a  loving  wife,  art-treasures  and  a  fine  house.  It  was  only 
a  matter  of  keeping  steady  and  concentrating  your  will 
power. 

But  to  become  like  Barrington  he  would  have  had  to  be  a 
gentleman.  A  top-hat  never  sat  on  his  head  as  if  it  be 
longed  to  him.  With  his  equals  in  birth  and  opportunity 
he  could  never  be  comfortable.  He  found  it  easy  to  be 
chatty  with  stable-boys  and  servants.  This  he  attributed 
to  his  superior  humanity.  He  was  fond  of  walking  down 
the  street  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  When  he  sat  on  a 
chair,  it  was  usually  on  the  middle  of  his  back  with  his  feet 
thrust  out.  He  slouched  through  life  like  an  awkward 
boy,  experiencing  discomfort  in  the  presence  of  his  elders. 

Since  he  could  not  cure  himself  of  his  habits,  he  deter 
mined  some  day,  when  he  was  ready  for  the  effort,  to  get 
money;  with  money  his  habits  would  no  longer  be  bad — • 
they  would  become  signs  of  democracy  and  independence. 
At  the  time  of  the  Christmas  party  he  was  a  clerk  in  a 
lawyer's  office — he  had  been  other  things  before  that.  This 
was  his  worldly  condition,  when  he  met  Jehane  and  fell 
in  love  with  her. 

They  drifted  together  from  force  of  circumstance ;  Nan 


40  THE   RAFT 

and  Harrington  were  still  very  much  of  lovers ;  Mr.  Tudor 
spent  his  time  on  the  floor  with  Peter  and  Glory.  They 
were  thrown  together ;  there  was  no  escape  from  it.  Ocky 
was  naturally  affectionate;  it  was  part  of  his  weak  ami 
ability  to  love  somebody.  He  craved  love  for  himself — or 
was  it  admiration?  But  as  a  rule  no  one  was  flattered  by 
his  affection — it  was  always  on  tap.  Jehane  did  not  know 
that.  Her  wounded  pride  was  soothed  because  he  selected 
her.  She  was  hungry  for  a  man's  appreciation  and  anxious 
for  his  protection.  And  as  for  Ocky,  to  whom  no  one  ever 
listened — he  was  encouraged  by  her  pleased  attention. 

He  sought  her  out  at  first  in  a  good-natured  effort  to 
dispel  her  melancholy ;  his  method  was  to  regale  her  with 
worn  chestnuts.  She  heard  them  with  a  slow,  sweet  smile 
on  her  mouth,  which  narrowed  and  widened,  but  rarely 
broke  into  mirth.  This  showed  him  that  all  his  stories 
were  new  to  her.  The  poor  fellow  was  stirred  to  his 
shallow  depths.  A  gusty  passion  blew  through  him;  he 
struggled  into  seeming  strength;  he  felt  he  was  a  man. — 
When  you're  choosing  a  woman  who  will  be  condemned  to 
hear  all  your  old  anecdotes  over  and  over  to  the  day  of  her 
death,  it  is  very  necessary  to  select  one  to  whom  they  will 
come  fresh,  at  least  before  marriage.  Yes,  she  was  the 
wife  for  Waffles. 

Little  confidences  grew  up  between  them.  She  told  him 
about  Harrington,  hinting  that  he  had  wobbled  between  her 
and  Nan.  And  he  told  her  about  Harrington,  how  as  boys 
they  had  been  like  brothers,  spending  every  holiday  to 
gether,  but  now . 

But  now,  in  Barrington's  own  words,  a  little  of  Ocky 
went  a  long  way;  after  an  hour  or  two  in  his  company  he 
felt  quite  fed  up  with  him.  As  with  many  a  clever  man, 
vulgarity  of  mind  disgusted  him  more  than  well-bred 
viciousness.  He  found  it  difficult  to  hide  his  feelings  from 
his  guest.  In  fact,  he  didn't. 

Nan  was  the  first  to  notice  what  was  happening.  "He's 
making  love  to  Jehane,  I  declare!" 


JEHANE'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE  41 

Her  husband  shook  his  head  knowingly.  "Jehane's  too 
proud  for  that." 

"But  he  is.  They're  always  sitting  over  the  fire,  oh,  so 
closely,  and  whispering  together." 

"It  can't  be.  She's  amusing  herself.  If  I  thought  it 
were,  I'd  stop  it.  Ocky  may  be  a  bounder,  but  he  wouldn't 
do  that." 

"Billy  boy,  he's  doing  it." 

"But  he's  hardly  got  a  penny  to  bless  himself,  and  her 
little  income  wouldn't  attract  him." 

"You  may  say  what  you  like,  old  obstinate;  it  doesn't 
alter  facts." 

Jehane  was  proud,  as  Barrington  said ;  but  not  too  proud. 
She  realized  quite  well  what  Waffles  was,  but  she  hoped  to 
brace  him  up  with  her  strength.  She  was  by  no  means 
blind  to  his  shortcomings.  Often,  when  the  smile  was 
playing  about  her  mouth,  her  mind  was  in  a  ferment  of 
"derision.  At  night  remorse  pursued  her — the  fine,  clean 
memory  of  Bobbie  Spashett. — But  the  constant  sight  of 
Nan  and  Barrington,  their  stolen  kisses  and  love-words, 
were  getting  on  her  nerves.  She  looked  down  the  vista  of 
the  years — was  no  man  ever  to  conquer  her?  Was  she  to 
grow  into  an  old  woman  with  that  one  brief  memory  of  her 
soldier-man?  So  love-hunger  drew  her  to  Waffles,  despite 
the  warnings  of  her  better  sense.  The  love-hunger  was 
continually  quickened  by  the  sight  of  Nan's  domestic 
happiness. 

When,  after  a  week's  acquaintance,  he  said,  "Mrs.  Spa 
shett,  will  you  marry  me  ?"  she  replied,  "My  brave  husband  ! 
— I  cannot. — I  must  be  true  to  the  end." 

When  he  asked  her  again  two  days  later,  she  was  less 
positive.  "Oh,  Mr.  Waffles,  there's  Glory." 

"Call  me  Ocky,"  he  said. 

Then  he  changed  his  tactics.  He  argued  his  loneliness, 
their  community  of  grief,  the  loss  of  his  mother.  When  he 
spoke  of  his  mother,  she  liked  him  best.  "Give  me  time," 
she  murmured. 

The  crisis  came  on  the  last  day  of  her  visit,  and  was 


42  THE   RAFT 

hastened  by  two  foolish  happenings.  She  detested  the 
thought  of  the  return  to  her  parents'  silent  house.  She  had 
persuaded  herself  that  she  was  not  wanted  there ;  her  child 
fidgeted  the  old  people  and  disarranged  the  household. 
After  the  glimpse  of  warmth  and  heaven  she  had  had,  she 
magnified  her  troubles  through  the  glass  of  envy.  Oh,  to 
have  her  own  fireside,  and  her  own  man! — This  was  how 
the  crisis  happened. 

Peter,  aged  three,  was  playing  with  Glory.  With  the 
clumsiness  of  childhood  he  knocked  her  down.  She  com 
menced  to  scream  loudly — so  loudly  that  she  might  have 
been  seriously  hurt.  Jehane  rushed  into  the  nursery,  caught 
her  baby  to  her  breast  and,  in  her  anguish,  smacked  Peter. 
Peter  in  all  his  young  life  had  never  been  smacked ;  he 
watched  her  goggle-eyed  and  then  set  up  a  terrified  howl. 
When  Nan  arrived  on  the  scene,  he  was  sobbing  and  ex 
plaining  that  he  had  only  meant  to  softy  Glory,  which  was 
his  word  for  loving  her  by  rubbing  her  with  his  face  and 
hands.  A  quarrel  ensued  between  the  mothers  in  which 
bitter  things  were  said.  How  did  Jehane  dare  to  touch 
Peter,  her  little  Peterkins  baby,  who  was  always  so  sensitive 
and  gentle!  Nan  was  fiercely  angry  that  her  child  had 
been  unjustly  punished ;  Jehane  was  no  less  angry  because 
her  child  had  been  knocked  down.  When  it  was  all  over, 
the  babies  were  told  to  kiss  one  another;  Peter,  when 
Jehane  approached  him,  hid  his  face  in  his  mother's  skirt. 

Strained  relations  followed,  which  made  light  words  im 
possible.  Barrington,  when  he  heard  of  it,  was  extraordi 
narily  annoyed.  Waffles,  because  she  was  in  the  minority, 
sided  with  Jehane.  That  her  quiet,  madonna-like  adoration 
of  Glory  should  have  turned  into  tigerish  protective  pas 
sion  attracted  him  strangely. 

That  evening  Barrington  had  some  friends  to  dine  with 
him — men  and  women  of  his  world,  whose  good  opinion 
he  valued.  During  dinner  and  afterwards  in  the  drawing- 
room,  Waffles  had  been  ousted  from  the  conversation ; 
their  talk  was  all  of  books  and  travel — things  he  did  not 
understand.  He  felt  cold-shouldered — crowded  out.  He 


JEHANE'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE  43 

resented  it,  and  was  determined  to  show  them  that  he  also 
could  be  clever. 

He  waited  for  an  opening.  A  pause  in  the  conversation 
occurred.  He  sprang  into  the  gap.  That  he  was  irrelevant 
did  not  matter. 

"Heard  a  good  riddle  the  other  day.  Wonder  if  any  of 
you  can  answer  it."  All  eyes  turned  in  his  direction.  He 
cleared  his  throat  and  fumbled  at  his  collar.  "If  a  cat  ate 
a  haddock  and  a  dog  chased  the  cat,  and  the  cat  jumped 
over  the  wall,  what  relation  would  the  dog  bear  to  the 
haddock  ?" 

There  was  embarrassed  silence.  Every  face  wore  a 
puzzled  expression.  Barrington  pulled  his  cigar  from  his 
mouth  and  gazed  sternly  at  the  glowing  ash. 

At  last  a  lady,  who  wrote  poetry,  took  compassion  on 
him.  She  tapped  him  on  the  arm.  "I  can't  think  of  any 
answer.  Put  me  out  of  my  suspense.  I'm  so  anxious  to 
learn." 

Waffles  beamed  his  acknowledgments.  "That's  the  an 
swer,"  he  said  eagerly ;  "there  isn't  any  answer." 

Barrington  ceased  to  be  vexed  with  his  cigar  and  laughed 
coldly. 

"You  mustn't  mind  my  cousin.  He's  a  genial  ass.  Some 
times  it  takes  him  like  that. — Let's  see,  what  were  we  dis 
cussing  when  we  were  interrupted?" 

So  there  were  two  people  with  wounded  feelings  in  that 
company.  Ocky  saw  Jehane  slip  out  of  the  room,  and  he 
followed.  On  the  stairs  she  halted. 

"Why  are  you  following?" 

"I'm  not  wanted.     Confound  their  stupidity." 

"But  why  should  you  follow  me?" 

"Because  you're  the  same  as  I  am.  That's  why  you  left; 
you're  not  at  home  here.  Look  how  they  behaved  about 
Glory.  I  say,  it's  our  last  evening  together.  Won't  you 
give  me " 

But,  ridiculous  as  it  appeared  to  her,  an  almost  maidenly 
fear  took  hold  of  her;  she  fled.  He  found  her  in  the  dark, 
at  the  top  of  the  tall  house;  she  was  leaning  over  her 


44  THE    RAFT 

child's  cot  sobbing.  He  grew  out  of  himself,  stronger, 
better ;  against  her  will,  he  folded  her  to  him. 

"Won't  you  give  me  your  answer,  darling?" 

Silence. 

"I'll  be  very  good  to  Glory." 

Still  silence. 

"Oh,  Jehane,  I'm  so  foolish — such  a  weak,  foolish  fel 
low  ;  I  need  your  strength.  With  you  I  could  be  a  man." 

Then  all  that  was  maternal  awoke  in  her.  She  remem 
bered  how  she  had  seen  him  looking  empty-handed,  while 
those  clever  men  and  women  had  stared.  "You  musn't 
mind  my  cousin.  He's  a  genial  ass.  Sometimes  it  takes 
him  like  that." — Cruel !  Cruel !  She  took  his  head  and 
pressed  it  to  her  bosom,  kissing  him  on  the  forehead. 

Nan,  disturbed  by  their  disappearance,  found  them  kneel 
ing,  hand-in-hand,  beside  Glory. 

That  night  as  she  sat  before  her  mirror  undressing,  she 
let  her  hands  fall  to  her  side,  listless.  Barrington  stole  up 
behind  her  and  kissed  her  on  the  neck,  rubbing  his  face 
against  hers. 

"That's  what  Peter  calls  softying." 

"But  you  weren't  thinking  of  Peter,  little  woman." 

"How  did  you  know  that?" 

"You  looked  sad.     What's  the  trouble?" 

She  bent  back  her  head,  so  that  their  eyes  met  and  their 
lips  were  near  to  touching.  "If  I  hadn't  been  there  that 
day,  would  you  have  loved  Jehane  instead?" 

"Pepperminta,  I  was  in  love  with  you  when  we  played 
together  at  Cassingland.  Why  ask  foolish  questions?" 

"Because  it's  happened." 

"You  don't  mean ?" 

"Yes.  She's  taken  him,  and  I'm  sure  she  doesn't  want 
him." 

Barrington  drew  himself  upright,  then  stooped  over  her; 
he  was  realizing  the  perfect  joy  of  his  own  union  with  a 
startled  sense  of  thankfulness. 

"Poor  people,"  he  murmured. 

Three  months  later  Jehane  was  married.     The  wedding 


JEHANE'S    SECOND    MARRIAGE  45 

was  quiet ;  there  were  none  but  family-guests.  No  one  felt 
that  it  was  an  affair  to  boast  about.  It  took  place  from  the 
Professor's  house  at  Oxford ;  Mr.  Tudor  performed  the 
ceremony.  Glory  was  being  left  with  Nan  till  the  honey 
moon  was  ended.  All  morning  Jehane's  face  had  been 
gloomy;  perhaps  she  already  had  her  doubts.  Certainly 
Mr.  Waffles  did  not  show  to  advantage  in  art  Oxford  at 
mosphere.  He  was  too  boisterous.  His  shoes  were  too 
shiny.  The  colors  of  his  tie  and  button-hole  clashed. 
His  clothes  looked  ready-made.  At  parting  with  her 
mother,  Jehane  did  the  unexpected — she  wept. 

On  their  drive  to  the  station  through  austere  streets, 
with  bright  glimpses  of  college  quadrangles  and  young 
bloods  in  shooting-jackets  and  dancing-slippers,*  sauntering 
bareheaded,  Waffles  grew  more  exuberant  and  irrepressible ; 
his  ill-timed  gaiety  grated  on  her  nerves.  Having  taken 
their  seats  in  the  carriage,  the  train  was  delayed  in  starting. 
He  hung  his  head  out  of  the  window,  jerking  jocular  re 
marks  to  her  across  his  shoulder.  She  did  not  answer  him, 
but  sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap  and  her  eyes  cast 
down.  He  could  not  make  her  out;  up  to  now  she  had 
responded  so  readily  to  his  merriment.  At  all  costs  he 
must  make  her  laugh. 

The  station-master  was  passing  down  the  platform,  his 
hands  clasped  beneath  his  flapping  coat-tails.  Not  every 
station-master  guards  the  gate-way  to  a  seat  of  learning. 
This  particular  station-master  felt  the  full  importance  of 
his  position  and  carried  himself  with  his  stomach  thrust 
forward  and  his  head  thrown  back. 

Waffles  leant  from  the  window  and  beckoned  frantically. 
When  the  official  came  up,  he  commenced  to  jabber  in  in 
vented  gibberish,  desperately  gesticulating  with  his  hands. 

"Don't  understand  you,"  the  official  said  tartly;  "don't 
talk  no  foreign  langwidge." 

Waffles  paused  in  his  torrent  of  palaver  and  winked  sol 
emnly  at  a  group  of  undergraduates  who  stood  watching. 
They  happened  to  be  pupils  of  the  Professor.  Then,  as 


46  THE   RAFT 

though  an  inspiration  had  burst  upon  him,  he  inquired, 
"Parlez-vous  Franc,ais  ?" 

"Nong.  I  do  not,"  snapped  the  station-master,  annoyed 
that  his  lack  of  scholarship  should  be  exposed  in  this 
manner. 

He  was  moving  away,  when  Waffles  produced  his  crown 
ing  witticism,  to  which  all  the  rest  had  been  preface. 
Jehane  would  certainly  laugh  now.  "Hi!  Station-master! 
Does  this  train  go  to  Oxford?" 

He  had  one  glimpse  of  the  insulted  official's  countenance, 
then  he  felt  himself  grabbed  by  the  arm  and  drawn  vio 
lently  back  into  the  carriage. 

"Do  you  want  to  make  me  ashamed  of  you  already.  Sit 
down  and  behave  yourself." 

"But  darling " 

"Oh,  be  quiet.  Aren't  you  ever  solemn?  Is  nothing 
sacred  ?" 

Exceedingly  puzzled  and  utterly  extinguished,  he  did  as 
he  was  bade,  waiting  like  a  small  boy  expecting  to  be 
spanked. 

That  was  how  they  began  life  together. 


CHAPTER   VII 
THE   WHISTLING   ANGEL 

PETER  can  quite  well  remember  the  events  which  led  up 
to  that  strange  happening;  not  that  the  events  or  the  hap 
pening  seemed  strange  at  the  time — they  grew  into  his  life 
so  naturally.  He  thought,  if  he  thought  at  all,  that  to  all 
little  boys  came  the  same  experience;  he  would  not  have 
believed  you  had  you  told  him  otherwise. 

He  had  recently  achieved  his  fourth  birthday  and  the 
garden,  which  was  his  out-door  nursery,  was  a-flutter  with 
tremulous  spring-flowers.  That  night  his  mother  sent  away 
the  nurse,  and  undressed  and  bathed  him  herself.  She 
wanted  to  be  foolish  to  her  heart's  content,  laughing  and 
singing  and  crying  over  him.  Only  the  slender  laburnum, 
with  the  kind  old  mulberry-tree  peering  over  its  shoulder, 
watched  them  through  the  window.  The  laburnum  was  a 
young  girl,  his  mother  told  him,  with  shaky  golden  curls ; 
the  mulberry,  whose  arms  were  propped  with  crutches,  was 
her  grandfather. 

As  Peter's  mother  squeezed  the  sponge  down  his  back, 
she  stooped  her  pretty  head,  kissing  some  new  part  of  his 
wet  little  body  as  though  she  were  making  a  discovery. 
And  she  called  him  love-words,  Peterkins,  Precious  Lamb, 
Ownest;  and  she  pushed  him  away  from  her,  saying  he 
did  not  belong  to  her,  that  so  she  might  feel  the  eager  arms 
clasped  more  fiercely  about  her  neck. 

When  he  had  been  rolled  in  the  towel,  his  big  father 
entered  and  took  him,  rubbing  his  prickly  chin  against 
Peter's  neck;  nor  would  he  give  him  up.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  he  was  popped  into  his  pink,  woolly  night 
gown.  Even  then,  when  he  was  safe  in  bed,  they  stayed 

47 


48  THE   RAFT 

by  him — his  mother  humming  softly,  while  his  father  knelt 
to  be  able  to  kiss  her  without  bending.  Shadows  came  out 
from  the  cupboard  and  crept  toward  the  window,  pushing 
back  the  daylight;  the  daylight  dodged  across  the  ceiling, 
hid  in  the  mulberry  where  it  slept  till  morning,  came  back 
and  peeped  in  at  him  tenderly,  and  vanished.  His  eyes 
grew  heavy ;  the  next  thing  he  remembers  is  an  early  break 
fast,  a  cab  at  the  door  and  being  told  to  be  the  goodest 
little  boy  in  the  world.  He  was  hugged  till  he  was  breath 
less;  then  he  saw  the  face  of  his  beautiful  mother,  her  eyes 
red  with  weeping,  leaning  out  of  the  cab-window  throwing 
kisses,  growing  distant  and  yet  more  distant  down  the  ter 
race. 

In  later  years  he  knew  where  they  went — to  Switzerland 
to  re-live  their  honeymoon.  At  the  time  he  thought  they 
were  gone  forever. 

Grace,  his  nurse,  did  her  best  to  comfort  him,  blowing 
his  nose  so  severely  that  he  looked  to  see  if  it  had  come  off 
in  the  handkerchief.  For  Grace  he  had  a  great  respect. 
She  was  a  good-natured  lump  of  a  girl,  who  beat  a  drum 
for  the  Salvation  Army  under  gas-lamps  and  fought  a 
never  ending  battle  with  herself  to  pronounce  her  name 
correctly.  Mr.  Barring-ton  had  threatened  that  the  penalty 
for  failing  was  dismissal.  Now  the  violence  of  her  emotion 
and  the  absence  of  her  employers  made  her  reckless. 
"There,  little  Round  Tummy,  Grice'll  taik  care  of  you,  don't 
you  blow  bubbles  like  that.  You'll  cry  yourself  dry,  that 
you  will,  and  drown  us." 

An  awful  suggestion !  He  pictured  the  dining-room 
flooded  with  his  tears,  the  furniture  floating  and  Grace 
swimming  for  her  life.  He  turned  off  the  tap  to  just  the 
littlest  dribble.  If  he'd  stopped  at  once,  Grace  would  have 
ceased  to  be  sorry. 

She  did  not  keep  her  promise  to  take  care  of  him.  On 
the  contrary,  she  conducted  him  through  London  on  the 
tops  of  buses  and  left  him  at  a  strange  house.  It  belonged 
to  the  "smacking  lady,"  a  name  which  he  had  given  to 
Jehane  since  an  unfortunate  occurrence  previously  men- 


THE   WHISTLING   ANGEL  49 

tioned.  He  had  been  taught  to  call  her  Auntie  to  her  face, 
but  she  went  by  the  other  name  inside  his  head. 

On  many  points  his  memories  of  this  period  are  mud 
dled.  When  he  was  not  in  disgrace,  he  was  allowed  to 
play  with  Glory ;  if  he  had  been  specially  good,  he  was 
privileged  to  splash  in  the  same  bath  with  her  before  being 
put  to  bed.  But  this  was  not  often ;  it  appeared  that  quite 
suddenly,  since  coming  to  the  smacking  lady's  house,  he  had 
developed  an  extraordinary  faculty  for  being  bad.  She 
said  that  he  was  spoilt,  and  shut  him  up  in  rooms  to  make 
him  better.  He  did  his  best  to  improve,  for  he  believed 
that  his  naughtiness  was  the  cause  of  his  mother's  absence; 
she  would  never  come  back,  unless  he  became  "the  goodest 
little  boy  in  the  world."  To  judge  by  the  smacking  lady's 
countenance,  he  did  his  best  to  no  purpose. 

Her  man  was  the  one  bright  spot  in  his  tragedy ;  and  even 
he  seemed  a  little  afraid  of  her.  He  did  not  champion 
Peter  in  her  presence,  but  he  would  take  him  out  of  rooms 
— oh,  so  stealthily — and  carry  him  to  the  end  of  the  garden 
where  a  river  ran,  along  the  floor  of  which  fishes  flashed, 
pursued  by  their  shadows.  There  he  would  tell  him  funny 
stories — stories  of  Peter's  world  and  within  the  compass 
of  Peter's  understanding;  and  he  would  laugh  first  to  warn 
Peter  when  he  was  going  to  be  really  funny 

Peter  had  again  been  bad,  shut  up  in  a  room  and  rescued 
by  the  smacking  lady's  husband.  They  were  sitting  on 
the  river-bank,  screened  from  the  windows  of  the  house  by 
bushes,  when  they  heard  the  sound  of  running.  It  was  the 
servant;  she  spoke  loudly  with  excitement  and  seemed  out 
of  breath.  The  funny  man's  face  became  grave;  he  rose 
and  left  Peter  without  a  word. 

After  that,  all  kinds  of  people  came  hurrying;  they 
banged  on  the  door  and  went  swiftly  up  the  stairs — swiftly 
and  softly.  No  one  paid  him  any  heed  and,  strange  to  say, 
they  were  equally  careless  of  Glory.  He  was  glad  of  that, 
for  he  loved  Glory ;  it  made  him  happy  to  have  her  to  him 
self.  All  that  day  they  played  among  the  flowers,  he  fol 
lowing  the  shining  of  her  little  golden  head.  When  she  fell 


50  THE    RAFT 

asleep  tired,  he  sat  solemnly  beside  her,  holding  her  crum 
pled  hand. 

That  night  they  were  hastily  undressed  by  a  stranger 
and  tumbled  into  the  same  bed.  She  was  so  strange  that 
she  did  not  know  that  she  ought  to  hear  them  say  their 
prayers.  It  was  Peter  who  reminded  her. 

Lying  awake  in  the  darkness,  he  was  sensitive  that  some 
thing  unusual  was  happening.  Up  and  down  the  creaking 
stairs  many  footsteps  came  and  went;  dresses  rustled; 
voices  muttered  in  whispered  consultation.  In  intervals  be 
tween  doors  opening  and  shutting,  there  were  long  periods 
of  silence.  During  one  of  these  he  heard  a  sound  so  curi 
ous  that  he  sat  up  in  bed — a  weak,  thin  wailing  which  was 
new  to  him  and,  had  he  known  it,  new  to  the  world.  He 
gathered  the  bed-clothes  to  his  mouth  and  listened.  Voices 
on  the  stairs  grew  bolder — almost  glad.  Peter  was  con 
scious  of  relief  from  suspense ;  night  itself  grew  less  black. 

Again  a  door  opened  on  the"  lower  landing;  there  were 
footsteps.  A  man  spoke  cheerfully.  "It's  all  over  and  suc 
cessfully.  Thank  God  for  that." 

And  the  smacking  lady's  husband  roared,  "A  little  nipper 
all  my  own,  by  Gad !" 

Peter  didn't  understand,  but  they  let  him  see  next  morn 
ing — a  puckered  thing,  wrapt  in  blue  flannel,  with  the  tiniest 
of  hands,  lying  very  close  to  Aunt  Jehane's  breast.  It  was 
the  funny  man  who  showed  him,  lifting  him  up  so  he  could 
look  down  on  it.  The  funny  man  was  happy. 

Did  he  start  asking  questions  at  once,  or  does  he  only 
imagine  it?  Perhaps  someone  tried  to  explain  things  to 
him — it  may  have  been  his  friend,  the  funny  man.  It  may 
have  been  that  he  overheard  conversations  and  miscon 
strued  them.  At  all  events,  he  knew  that  the  baby  was  a 
girl  and  that  she  had  come  several  weeks  before  she  was 
expected.  Someone  said  that  Master  Peter  would  never 
have  been  there  had  they  known  that  this  was  going  to 
happen. — So  babies  came  from  somewhere  suddenly — some 
body  sent  them !  This  was  the  beginning  of  his  longing  to 
have  a  baby  all  to  himself — but  how? 


THE    WHISTLING    ANGEL  51 

One  fine  morning  the  treacherous  Grace  arrived,  not  one 
little  bit  abashed.  She  told  him  that  his  mother  was  coming 
back  to  Topbury. 

"Then  am  I  the  goodest  little  boy  in  the  world?" 

She  thumped  her  great  arms  round  him ;  he  might  have 
been  her  drum  she  was  playing.  "You  can  be  when  you 
like;  and,  my  word,  I  believe  you  are  now." 

He  le*arnt  before  he  left  that  the  new  baby  was  to  be 
called  "Riska" ;  and  he  noticed  this  much,  that  its  hair  and 
eyes  were  black. 

His  mother  had  lost  her  whiteness.  Her  face  and  hands 
were  brown ;  only  her  hair  was  the  old  sweet  color.  He 
had  not  been  long  with  her  when  he  made  his  request. 

"Mummy,  get  Peterkins  a  baby." 

She  was  sitting  sewing  by  the  window.  She  looked  up 
from  the  little  garment  she  was  making,  holding  the  needle 
in  her  hand. 

"What  a  funny  present!  Why  does  little  Peter  ask  for 
that?" 

"Mummy,  where  does  babies  come  from?" 

She  laid  aside  her  work  and  took  him  into  her  lap. 
"From  God,  dearie." 

"Who  brings  them,  mummikins?" 

"Angels." 

"How  does  they  know  to  bring  them?" 

She  laughed  nervously;  then  checked  herself,  seeing  how 
serious  was  the  child's  expression.  "People  ask  God, 
darling;  he  tells  the  angels.  They  bring  the  babies  all 
wrapt  up  warmly  in  their  softy  wings  and  feathers." 

"Could  a  little  boy  ask  him?" 

"Anyone  could  ask  him." 

"Would  he  send  me  one  for  my  very  ownest?" 

"Some  day — perhaps." 

"And  you  asked  God  to  send  me,  muvver?" 

"I  and  your  Daddy  together." 

He  lay  so  quietly  in  her  arms  that  she  thought  his  ques 
tions  were  at  an  end.  She  did  not  take  up  her  work,  but 
sat  smiling  with  dreamy  eyes,  humming  and  resting  her 


52  THE    RAFT 

chin  on  his  curly  head.  He  clambered  down  from  her  knee, 
satisfied  and  laughing,  "Ask  him  again — you  and  Daddy 
together." 

Just  then  Barrington  entered.  "What's  Daddy  to  ask 
for  now?"  Then,  "Why  Nancy,  tears  in  your  eyes  !  What's 
Peter  been  doing?" 

She  held  her  husband  very  closely,  looking  shy  and 
happy.  "He's  been  asking  for  the  thing  we've' prayed 
for." 

"Eh!    What's  that?" 

"A  baby." 

"A  baby?    Funny  little  beggar!    Extraordinary!" 

"And  sweet!"  whispered  Nan. 

"Come  here,  young  fellow."  His  father  was  solemn,  but 
his  eyes  were  laughing.  He  held  Peter  between  his  knees, 
so  their  faces  nearly  met.  "If  your  mother  asks  God  for  a 
baby  sister,  will  you  always  be  good  to  her — the  truliest, 
goodest  little  brother  in  the  world?'* 

And  Peter  nodded  emphatically.  His  father  shook  his 
chubby  hand,  sealing  the  bargain. 

Peter  watched  hourly  for  her  coming — he  never  doubted 
it  would  be  a  her.  He  would  inquire  several  times  daily, 
"Will  it  be  soon?"  There  was  always  the  same  answer, 
"Peterkins,  Peterkins  presently." 

One  night  he  heard  the  same  sounds  that  had  amazed 
him  at  the  smacking  lady's  house — whispers,  running  on 
the  stairs,  doors  opening  and  shutting.  He  waited  for  the 
weak,  thin  wailing;  but  that  did  not  follow.  Nevertheless, 
he  was  sure  it  had  happened :  wrapt  up  warmly,  in  softy 
angel-feathers,  God  had  sent  him  a  sister  for  himself. 

It  was  very  late  when  Grace  came  to  bed.  Peter  pre 
tended  to  be  asleep ;  he  feared  she  would  be  angry.  Slowly 
he  raised  himself  on  the  pillow,  his  eyes  clear  and  un- 
drowsy. 

"Why,  Master  Peter!" 

She  turned  from  the  mirror  so  startled  that,  as  she  spoke, 
the  hair-pins  fell  from  her  mouth. 


THE    WHISTLING    ANGEL  53 

"What  a  fright  you  give  me !  I  thought  your  peepers 
'ad  been  glued  tight  for  hours  h'and  hours." 

"Has  she  come  ?  Has  she  come  ?  Did  a  lady-angel  bring 
her?" 

"Lor'  bless  the  boy,  he's  dreamin' !  Now  lie  down,  little 
Round  Tummy.  Grice  won't  be  long;  then  she'll  hold  you 
in  'er  arms  all  comfy." 

"But  Grace,  she's  downstairs,  a  teeny  weeny  one — just 
big  enough  for  Peter  to  carry." 

"Now,  look  'ere,  you  just  stop  it,  Master  Peter.  It's 
no  time  for  talkin' ;  you'll  'ear  soon  enough.  You  and  your 
teeny  weeny  ones !" 

Peter  lay  down,  his  little  heart  choking.  Why  wouldn't 
Grace  tell  him? 

"But,  Grace " 

"Shut  up.    I'm  a-sayin'  of  me  prayers." 

In  the  morning  the  hushed  suspense  still  hung  about  the 
house.  When  he  raised  his  piping  voice,  Grace  shook  him 
roughly.  At  breakfast  his  father's  brows  were  puckered — 
he  wasn't  a  bit  happy  like  the  funny  man.  When  the  table 
had  been  cleared,  he  laid  aside  his  paper  and  sat  Peter  on 
his  knee  before  him.  "Something  happened  last  night, 
sonny.  You've  got  a  little  brother." 

"Not  a  sister,  Daddy?" 

Peter  cried  at  that;  no  wonder  they  were  all  so  sad. 
"But  we  asked  God  for  a  sister  partickerlarly." 

All  day  as  he  played  in  a  whisper  by  himself,  he  tried  to 
think  things  out.  God  had  become  confused  at  the  last 
moment,  or  the  angel  had :  the  wrong  baby  had  been 
brought  to  their  house.  But  where  was  the  right  one  ? 

That  evening  the  angel  remembered  his  error  and  took 
the  baby  back. 

Peter  was  being  undressed  for  bed  and  Grace  was  crying 
terribly.  She  had  just  slipped  him  into  his  long,  pink  night 
gown  when  his  father  caime  in  hurriedly.  He  caught  him 
up,  wrapping  a  blanket  round  him  and  ran  with  him  down 
stairs.  The  door  of  the  room  which  he  had  watched  all 
day  was  opened  by  a  man  in  black.  The  room  was  in 


54  THE    RAFT 

darkness,  save  for  a  shaded  lamp.  There  were  several 
people  present;  all  of  them  whispered  and  walked  on  tip 
toe.  He  raised  himself  up  in  his  father's  arms.  On  the 
bed  his  mother  lay  weak  and  listless  ;  her  eyes  were  blue  and 
vacant.  She  seemed  to  have  shrunk  and  tears  stole  down 
her  cheeks  unheeded.  Her  hair  seemed  heavy  for  her  head 
and  lay  across  the  pillow  in  two  broad  plaits.  In  her  arms 
was  a  little  bundle.  The  man  in  black  commenced  to  talk 
huskily.  No  one  answered ;  everyone  listened  to  what  he 
said.  Suddenly  he  stooped  to  take  the  bundle  from  his 
mother,  but  her  arms  tightened.  "I'll  keep  him  as  long  as 
God  lets  me." 

So  the  man  drew  aside  the  wrappings ;  Peter  saw  the  face 
of  a  tiny  stranger  already  tired  of  the  world.  The  man 
in  black  spoke  some  words  more  loudly  and  touched  the 
stranger's  face  with  water.  Peter  shuddered ;  it  was  cruel 
to  wet  his  face  like  that.  They  all  stood  silent  in  the  shad 
ows — all  except  Peter,  who  cuddled  against  his  father's 
shoulder.  Someone  said,  "He's  gone,"  and  the  sobbing 
commenced. 

That  night  Peter  slept  in  his  mother's  bedroom — she 
would  have  it.  She  seemed  frightened  that  an  angel  so 
careless  might  carry  him  away  as  well.  So  they  set  up  his 
cot  by  the  side  of  her  bed;  as  she  lay  on  her  pillows  she 
could  watch  him. 

Mummikins  got  happy  slowly;  she  seemed  disappointed 
in  God.  Gradually  Peter  learnt  that,  although  the  baby 
had  been  left  at  the  wrong  house,  they  had  given  him  a 
name  and  had  called  him  Philip.  But  the  old  question  wor 
ried  Peter — the  one  which  no  one  seemed  able  to  answer: 
where  was  the  sister  God  had  meant  to  send  and  which  his 
father  had  promised?  Since  everyone  treated  him  with 
reticence,  he  took  the  matter  up  with  God  himself.  Often, 
when  his  mother  bent  above  him  and  thought  him  sleeping, 
he  was  talking  with  God  inside  his  head.  As  a  result  the 
strange  thing  happened. 

In  his  room,  to  the  left  of  his  bed,  was  a  large  powder- 
cupboard,  even  in  the  day-time  full  of  shadows.  One 


THE   WHISTLING   ANGEL  55 

night  he  had  been  praying  out  loud  to  himself,  but  his  voice 
was  growing  weary  and  his  eyelids  kept  falling.  As  he 
lay  there,  coming  from  the  cupboard,  very  softly,  very  dis 
tant,  he  heard  a  sound  of  whistling.  It  was  a  little  air, 
happy  and  haunting,  trilled  over  and  over.  He  sat  up  and 
listened,  not  at  all  frightened.  He  thrust  himself  up  with 
his  elbows,  his  head  bent  forward,  in  listening  ecstasy.  His 
father  could  whistle,  but  not  like  that.  A  man's  whistling 
was  shrill  and  strong.  This  was  gentle  and  glad,  like  a 
violin  played  high  up — ah  yes,  like  his  mother's  whistling. 
Then,  somehow,  he  knew  that  a  girl's  lips  formed  that 
sound. 

He  slipped  out  of  bed  in  the  darkness  and  tiptoed  to  the 
cupboard.  He  opened  the  door;  it  stopped. 

When  he  was  safe  in  bed  it  again  commenced,  as  though 
it  were  saying,  "I'm  coming.  I'm  coming,  little  Peterkins. 
Don't  be  impatient." 

It  was  trying  to  say  more  than  that,  and  he  racked  his 
brains  to  understand.  When  he  lay  quiet  and  was  almost 
asleep,  the  picture  formed.  He  saw  a  girl-angel,  standing 
in  a  garden,  watching  God  at  his  work.  And  what  was 
God  doing?  He  was  making  a  little  sister  for  Peter,  stitch 
ing  her  together.  And  every  time  the  angel  stopped  whist 
ling,  God's  needle  dropped.  And  every  time  she  recom 
menced,  God  laughed  and  plucked  feathers  from  her  softy 
wings  to  make  garments  for  the  little  sister.  Peter  named 
her  the  Whistling  Angel.  One  day,  when  she  and  God 
were  ready,  she  would  bring  his  little  sister  to  him. 

The  last  thing  he  heard,  as  his  sleepy  eyes  closed  on  the 
pillow,  was  that  happy  haunting  little  air,  like  a  tune  played 
high  up  on  a  violin,  faintly,  faintly. 

"I'm  coming.  I'm  coming,  little  Peterkins.  Don't  be 
impatient." 

It  was  like  the  rustle  of  wind  in  an  angel's  wings  who  had 
already  set  out  on  the  journey. 


CHAPTER   VIII 
"COMING.     COMING,   PETERKINS" 

PETER  took  all  the  credit  to  himself — she  was  his  baby. 
And  why  not  ?  Nobody,  not  even  his  mother  or  father,  had 
had  anything  to  do  with  her  advent.  For  many  months 
after  Philip's  short  sojourn,  his  mother  had  cried  and  his 
father  had  frowned  whenever  babies  were  mentioned.  Had 
it  not  been  for  Peter,  the  little  sister  might  have  slipped 
God's  memory.  Peter  gave  him  no  chance  to  forget.  Every 
night,  kneeling  between  the  bed-clothes  with  his  lips  against 
the  pillow  to  muffle  the  sound,  he  reminded  God.  He 
realized  that  this  attitude  was  not  respectful  and  always 
apologized  in  his  prayers.  He  did  it  because  big  people 
wouldn't  understand  if  they  caught  him  kneeling  beside  the 
bed ;  it  would  be  quite  easy  to  fall  asleep  there  and  get 
found. — So,  of  course,  when  she  came,  she  belonged  to  him. 
But  her  coming  was  not  yet.  He  had  no  end  of  trouble  in 
getting  her. 

After  he  had  heard  the  whistling,  he  tried  to  tell  Grace 
about  it.  This  happened  the  very  next  morning.  She  had 
risen  late  and  was  dressing  him  in  a  hurry  in  order  to  get 
him  down  in  time  for  breakfast.  She  hardly  listened  to 
him  at  all,  but  jerked  him  this  way  and  that,  buttoning  and 
tying  and  tucking. 

"My,  oh,  my !  There's  only  emptiness  inside  your  little 
'ead  this  mornin' ;  you  must  'ave  left  your  brains  beneath 
the  pillow.  What  a  lot  o'  talk  about  nothin'." 

"It  wasn't  nothing,  Grace.     I  really  and  truly  heard  it." 

"Now  then,  no  false'oods,  young  man.  God's  a-listenin' 
and  writin'  it  all  down. — There,  Grice  didn't  mean  to  be 

56 


"COMING.     COMING,   PETERKINS"  57 

h'angry!  But  you  talk  your  tongue  clean  out  o'  your 
'ead." 

"But  Grace,  I  did.    I  did.    It  was  like  this." 

He  pursed  his  lips  together ;  only  a  splutter  came.  Grace 
rubbed  his  face  vigorously  with  the  flannel,  leaving  a  taste 
of  soap  in  his  mouth. 

"You  should  'ear  my  new  sweet'eart."  She  was  trying  to 
create  a  diversion.  "  'E  can  make  a  winder  rattle  in  its 
frame ;  it's  that  loud  and  shrill,  the  noise  'e  do  make.  If 
you're  a  good  boy,  maybe  I'll  get  'im  to  teach  you  'ow." 

He  was  bursting  with  his  strange  new  knowledge ;  he  was 
sure  his  mother  would  understand.  While  his  father  was 
at  the  table  he  kept  silent.  His  father  soon  hurried  away; 
the  front-door  slammed. 

He  plucked  at  his  mother's  skirt.  "Last  night  God  was 
in  my  cupboard." 

"But  darling,  little  boys  oughtn't  to  say  things  like  that — 
not  even  in  fun,  Peter." 

"I  heard  him,  mummikins.  An  angel  was  with  him,  do 
ing  like  this." 

He  puffed  out  his  cheeks ;  but  he  wasn't  so  clever  as  the 
angel.  No  sound  came. 

His  mother  gazed  long  into  the  eager  face,  trying-  to 
detect  mischief.  "Whistling — is  that  what  you  mean?  But 
angels  don't  whistle,  Peter." 

"This  one  did — in  our  cupboard — in  my  bedroom." 

He  wagged  his  head  solemnly  in  affirmation.  Then  he 
drew  down  his  mother's  face.  She  was  smiling  to  herself. 
"God  was  making  our  baby,"  he  whispered,  "and  the  angel 
was  waiting  to  bring  her." 

The  rain  came  into  her  eyes — that  was  what  Peter  called 
it.  "Hush,  my  dearest.  That's  all  over.  You're  my  only 
baby  now." 

She  pressed  him  to  her;  he  could  feel  her  shaking.  Just 
then,  he  knew,  nothing  more  must  be  said. 

Many  times  he  tried  to  tell  her.  One  evening,  while  the 
angel  was  whistling,  she  tiptoed  into  his  bedroom.  Looking 
up  through  the  darkness  he  saw  her  and  seized  her  ex- 


58  THE    RAFT 

citedly  about  the  neck.  "They're  there,  mummy.  Don't 
you  hear  her?  She's  whistling  now."  He  pronounced  it 
'wussling.' 

"Why  her,  Peter?" 

"I  dunno ;  but  listen,  listen." 

She  opened  the  cupboard  door.    "See,  there's  nothing." 

"She  stopped  when  you  did  that." 

"Go  to  sleep,  my  precious.  You're  dreaming.  If  there 
was  anything,  mother  would  have  heard  it  as  well." 

So  he  learnt  to  keep  his  secret  to  himself ;  no  one  seemed 
able  to  share  it.  Every  now  and  then,  he  would  stop  in  his 
playing,  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  his  face  intent; 
those  who  watched  would  see  him  creep  upstairs  and  peep 
into  the  big,  dark  cupboard.  Strangely  enough,  whatever 
he  thought  he  heard,  he  did  not  appear  frightened. 

When  the  doctor  was  called  to  examine  him  he  said,  "A 
very  imaginative  child !  Oh  dear  no,  he's  quite  well.  He'll 
grow  out  of  that  fancy.  Won't  you,  old  chap?" 

At  the  back  of  his  mother's  mind  was  the  terror  that  she 
was  going  to  lose  him.  She  kept  him  always  with  her. 
When  that  dreamy  look  came  into  his  eyes  and  he  turned 
his  head  expectantly,  she  would  snatch  him  to  her  breast,  as 
though  someone  lurked  near  to  take  him  from  her.  And 
Peter  lay  still  in  her  arms  and  smiled,  for  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  angel  leant  over  the  banisters  and  whistled  softly, 
"I'm  coming.  I'm  coming,  little  Peterkins." 

But  Peter  was  anxious  to  make  God  hurry.  It  was  Grace 
who  taught  him  how. 

Her  faith  came  in  spasms.  Although  she  beat  the  drum 
for  the  Salvation  Army  her  fervor  had  its  ups  and  downs. 
She  used  to  tell  Peter.  When  her  love-affairs  went  wrong, 
she  was  overwhelmed  with  doubt  and  refused  to  go  on 
parade.  "  'E  can  carry  the  drum  'isself,"  she  would  say, 
speaking  of  her  Maker.  "If  'e  don't  look  after  me  no  bet 
ter,  I've  done  with  'im.  It's  awright;  I  don't  care.  'E  can 
please  'isself.  If  'e  can  do  without  me,  I  can  do  without 
'im.  So  there." 

These  confidences  made  Peter  feel  that  God  was  an  ex- 


"COMING.     COMING,    PETERKINS"          59 

cessively  accessible  person.  One  evening,  kneeling  in  his 
mother's  lap  with  folded  hands,  he  surprised  her  by  adding 
to  the  petition  she  had  taught  him,  "Now,  look  here,  God, 
I'm  tired  of  waiting.  I  wants " 

At  this  point  he  was  stopped  by  a  gentle  hand  pressed 
firmly  over  his  mouth. 

"I  can't  think  what's  come  to  Peter,"  she  told  her  hus 
band  ;  "he  speaks  so  crossly  to  God  in  his  prayers." 

"That's  Grace,"  said  Barrington  laughing,  "you  mark 
my  words.  You'd  better  talk  to  her." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  so  frightened  when  he  does  like  that. 
Billy,  do  you  think " 

He  stopped  her  promptly.  "No,  I  don't.  The  boy's  all 
right/; 

Seeing  how  her  lips  trembled,  he  took  her  in  his  arms. 
"You've  never  grown  out  of  your  short  frocks — you're  so 
timid,  you  golden  little  Nan." 

It  was  after  Grace  had  been  spoken  to  that  she  made  it 
up  with  her  Maker.  When  this  occurred,  Peter  was  with 
her  in  the  dimly  lit  hall  where  the  soldiers  of  Salvation 
gathered.  She  was  sitting  beside  him  sulkily  on  the  back 
bench  nearest  the  door;  suddenly  she  rose  and  dashed  for 
ward  in  a  storm  of  weeping.  While  the  penitent  knelt  by 
the  platform,  the  man  who  was  waving  his  arms  went  on 
talking.  Peter  was  growing  frightened  for  her,  when  she 
jumped  to  her  feet,  seizing  a  tambourine  which  she  banged 
and  shook  above  her  head,  and  shouted,  "I'm  cleansed.  I'm 
cleansed." 

Partly  because  of  her  strength  and  partly  because  of  her 
righteousness,  she  was  allowed  to  carry  the  drum  again 
and  march  in  the  front  of  the  procession.  Peter  was  im 
pressed.  After  that  when  he  had  been  impatient  with  God, 
he  would  seek  forgiveness  by  declaring  himself  cleansed. 
He  always  thought  that,  following  such  confessions,  the 
whistling  came  louder  from  the  cupboard. 

But  it  was  Uncle  Waffles  who  completed  his  information. 
At  intervals  he  would  come  over  to  Topbury  with  Aunt 
Jehane.  So  far  as  the  ladies  were  concerned,  the  talk  was 


60  THE    RAFT 

usually  about  their  children.  Aunt  Jehane  would  rarely  fail 
to  mourn  the  fact  that  hers  were  both  girls. 

"Boys  are  different,"  she  would  say ;  "you  can  turn  them 
out  to  sink  or  swim.  But  girls !  Sooner  or  later  one  has  to 
get  them  married.  It's  like  my  fortune  to  have  two  of 
them — the  luck  was  with  you  from  the  first." 

Perhaps  that  was  Jehane's  way  of  reminding  Nan  that 
she  had  given  her  husband  only  Peter.  Waffles  seemed  to 
construe  it  in  that  light  for,  when  she  had  repeated  her 
complaint  more  than  twice,  he  would  tuck  Peter  under  one 
arm  and  Glory  under  the  other,  and  steal  away  to  some  hid 
den  place  where  he  could  ask  him  funny  questions.  If  he 
heard  a  cock  crowing  he  would  stop  and  inquire,  "Why 
does  the  Doodle-do?" 

The  little  boy  almost  always  forgot  the  proper  answer. 
Uncle  Waffles  would  have  to  tell  him,  "Because  he  does, 
Peter." 

Peter  soon  learnt  that  Uncle  Waffles  had  secrets  as  well, 
for,  when  he  talked  in  the  presence  of  his  wife,  he  would 
hold  his  chin  in  his  hand,  so  as  to  be  able  to  slip  his  fingers 
quickly  over  his  mouth  if  he  found  that  unwise  words  were 
escaping.  If  he  were  too  late  in  slipping  up  his  fingers, 
she  would  say  quite  sharply,  "Ocky,  don't  be  stupid.  You're 
no  better  than  a  child." 

It  was  because  Uncle  Waffles  was  no  better  than  a  child 
that  Peter  took  courage  to  ask  him,  "How  does  people  have 
babies?" 

His  uncle  regarded  him  seriously  a  moment.  "You're 
very  little  to  ask  such  questions.  It's  a  great  secret.  If  I 
tell  you,  promise  to  keep  it  to  yourself." 

When  he  had  promised,  his  uncle  whispered.  And  Peter 
knew  that  it  was  true,  for  he  remembered  that  someone  had 
been  lazy  and  had  had  breakfast  in  bed  before  the  coming 
of  both  Riska  and  Philip.  So  he  learnt  the  last  piece  of 
witchcraft  by  which  babies  are  induced  to  come  into  the 
world.  From  then  on,  until  it  happened,  he  was  continually 
coaxing  his  mother  not  to  get  up  to  breakfast.  One  morn 
ing  she  took  his  advice ;  then  he  knew  for  certain  that  Uncle 


"COMING.     COMING,    PETERKINS"          61 

Waffles  was  very  wise,  even  though  Aunt  Jehane  did  call 
him  stupid. 

For  some  time  the  whistling  had  been  growing  bolder: 
it  would  come  out  of  the  cupboard  as  though  the  angel  were 
running;  it  would  wander  all  over  the  house  and  meet  him 
in  the  most  unexpected  places.  When  he  was  playing  in 
the  garden  it  would  drift  down  to  him  from  the  tree-tops, 
"Coming,  Peterkins.  Coming."  It  had  grown  quick  like 
that,  as  though  it,  too,  were  impatient  of  waiting. 

Two  years  had  gone  by  since  God  had  sent  Philip  and 
taken  him  back  so  suddenly.  It  was  within  a  few  days  of 
the  anniversary  and  very  close  to  Christmas.  All  day  the 
sky  had  been  heavy  with  clouds.  It  was  bitterly  cold  out 
side;  Peter  had  been  kept  in  the  nursery  with  a  big,  red 
fire  blazing.  Everyone  seemed  busy ;  they  opened  the  door 
now  and  then  to  make  sure  that  he  was  all  right,  and  left 
him  to  play  by  himself.  Toward  evening  the  clouds  burst 
like  great  pillows,  swollen  with  angels'  feathers;  softly, 
softly,  covering  up  bare  trees,  putting  the  world  to  sleep 
beneath  a  great  white  counterpane,  the  snow  came  down. 

He  woke  in  the  night ;  it  was  like  a  lark  singing  right  be 
side  his  bed.  It  was  the  old  haunting  little  air  that  it  sang, 
but  so  much  quicker,  "Coming.  Coming.  Coming."  Some 
times  it  sank  into  the  faintest  whisper;  sometimes  it  would 
swell  into  a  sound  so  loud  and  happy  that  even  Grace's 
sweetheart  could  not  have  whistled  louder.  Grace  turned 
drowsily  and,  seeing  him  sitting  up,  drew  him  down  be 
neath  the  clothes,  putting  her  arms  about  him.  No,  she  had 
not  heard  it. 

In  the  morning  his  mother's  breakfast  was  carried  up 
stairs  and  his  father  looked  worried.  Peter  grew  afraid 
lest  he  had  done  wrong  and  a  little  sister  was  not  wanted. 
So  he  hid  himself  in  the  big  dark  cupboard  in  the  bed 
room  and  was  not  missed  for  hours. 

Presently  voices  wandered  up  and  down  the  house,  some 
times  sounding  quite  near  and  sometimes  quite  distant, 
"Peter!  Peter!  Where  are  you?"  They  seemed  afraid 
to  call  louder. 


62  THE   RAFT 

Peter  had  his  suspicions,  so  he  kept  quiet.  They  did 
not  want  her — and  they  knew  that  he  had  done  it. 

Someone  said  "Shish !"  The  other  voices  sank  into 
silence ;  now  it  was  only  his  father's  that  he  heard.  "Peter- 
kins,  Peterkins,  father  wants  you.  Don't  be  frightened. 
He's  going  to  tell  you  something  grand." 

So  Peter  came  out;  when  he  saw  his  father's  face,  he 
knew  that  he  was  not  angry. 

"You  did  want  her  too — didn't  you,  didn't  you,  Daddy?" 

"Of  course  I  did,  you  rummy  little  chap.  But  how  did 
you  know?  Who  told  you?" 

Although  he  coaxed  and  rubbed  his  scrubby  chin  against 
Peter's  neck,  he  never  got  an  answer  to  that  question. 
Where  was  the  good  of  answering?  Either  you  had  ears 
like  Peter's  or  you  hadn't. 


CHAPTER   IX 
KAY  AND   SOME   OTHERS 

SHE  filled  all  his  thoughts ;  the  world  had  become  new 
to  him.  Picture-books  were  no  longer  amusing;  just  to  be 
Peter  with  a  little  strange  sister  was  the  most  fascinating 
story  imaginable. 

It  was  easy  to  keep  him  good  ;  Grace  had  only  to  threaten 
that  he  should  not  see  her.  See  her!  He  lived  for  that. 
Early  in  the  morning  he  was  at  the  bedroom  door,  wait 
ing  for  the  nurse  to  look  out  and  beckon.  As  he  followed 
her  in  on  tiptoe,  his  golden  little  motherkins  would  turn 
on  her  pillow,  holding  out  her  hand.  She  was  prettier  than 
ever  now.  If  Peter  had  known  the  word,  he  would  have 
said  she  looked  sacred:  that  was  what  he  felt.  And  she 
seemed  to  have  grown  younger.  She  appeared  immature 
as  a  girl,  so  slim  and  pale,  stretched  out  in  the  broad  white 
bed.  Her  hair  lay  in  shining  pools  between  the  counter 
pane  mountains. 

"Pepperminta,  you're  no  older  than  Peter,"  he  had  heard 
his  father  tell  her;  "you're  a  kiddy  playing  with  dollies — 
not  a  mother.  It's  absurd." 

He  knew  from  watching  his  father  that,  if  they  had 
loved  her  before,  they  must  love  her  ten  thousand  times 
better  now.  When  he  went  for  his  walks  with  Grace,  he 
spent  his  pennies  to  bring  her  home  flowers. 

Everything  in  that  room  had  been  brightened  to  wel 
come  the  little  sister.  It  had  a  sense  of  whiteness  and  a 
soft,  sweet  fragrance.  They  had  to  make  the  little  sister 
feel  that  they  were  glad  she  had  come  and  wanted  her  to 
stay.  So  a  fire  was  kept  burning  in  the  grate.  They  spoke 

63 


64  THE   RAFT 

in  whispers  and  walked  on  their  toes,  the  way  one  does 
in  church. 

Climbing  on  a  chair,  he  would  seat  himself  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  while  his  mother's  eyes  laughed  at  him  from  the 
pillow,  "We've  managed  it  this  time,  little  Peter." 

Presently  the  nurse  would  turn  back  the  sheet  and  show 
him  the  stranger,  cuddled  in  his  mother's  breast;  he  would 
see  a  shining  head,  like  fine  gold  scattered  on  white  satin, 

"The  same  as  yours,  mummy." 

"And  the  same  as  yours,  darling." 

When  anyone  found  him  in  any  way  like  her,  Peter 
was  glad. — If  he  waited  patiently,  the  blue  eyes  would 
open  and  stare  straight  past  him,  seeing  visions  of  another 
world. 

"She  sees  something,  mummy." 

"God,  perhaps." 

Peter  thought  he  knew  better,  for  he  heard  quite  near, 
yet  so  softly  that  it  might  have  been  far  away,  the  violin- 
like  whisper  of  one  who  whistled  beneath  her  breath. 

"Dearest,  was  Peter  like  that?" 

"Peter  and  everybody." 

There  were  times  when  he  was  allowed  to  slip  his 
finger  between  those  of  the  tiny  fisted  hand.  When  he 
felt  their  pressure,  they  seemed  to  say,  "I'm  yours,  Peter- 
kins.  Take  care  of  me,  won't  you?" 

He  was  sure  she  knew  that  he  had  seen  God  make  her. 

He  did  not  want  to  speak ;  he  was  perfectly  content 
to  sit  in  the  sheltered  quiet,  watching.  He  would  listen 
outside  the  door  for  hours  on  the  chance  of  being  ad 
mitted.  If  Grace  missed  him,  she  always  knew  where  he 
might  be  found. 

As  the  little  sister  grew,  he  was  permitted  to  see  her 
bathed  and  dressed.  One  by  one  the  soft  wrappings  were 
removed  and  folded,  and  the  perfect  little  body  revealed 
itself.  No  wonder  God  had  taken  so  long;  he  had  put 
such  love  into  his  work.  By  and  by  she  learnt  how  to 
crow  and  splash.  Her  first  recorded  smile  was  given  to 
Peter.  But  long  before  that  a  name  had  to  be  chosen. 


KAY   AND    SOME    OTHERS  65 

She  was  christened  Kathleen  Nancy  and  was  called  Kay, 
because  that  made  her  sound  dearer. 

Peter  was  nearly  seven  at  the  time  of  her  coming.  Of 
all  people,  he  and  his  mother  seemed  to  know  her  best. 
They  had  secrets  about  her;  before  she  could  talk,  they 
told  one  another  what  her  baby  language  meant.  During 
her  first  summer  on  earth,  they  would  sit  beside  her  cradle 
in  the  garden,  believing  that  birds  and  flowers  stooped  to 
watch  her. 

"You're  no  older  than  Peter,"  his  father  had  said.  But, 
when  he  came  home  from  the  city,  he  would  join  them 
and  seemed  perfectly  happy  to  gaze  on  Kay,  with  Peter 
on  his  knee,  holding  Nan's  free  hand. 

Even  in  those  early  days,  it  was  strange  the  power  that 
Peter  had  over  her.  If  she  were  crying,  she  would  stop 
and  laugh  for  Peter.  She  would  sleep  for  Peter,  if  he 
hummed  and  rocked  her.  When  she  began  to  speak,  it 
was  Peter  who  taught  her  and  interpreted  what  she  said ; 
that  was  during  her  second  summer,  when  leaves  in  the 
garden  were  tapping.  They  grew  to  trust  Peter  where 
Kay  was  concerned.  "He's  so  gentle  with  her,"  they  said. 

"Might  be  'er  father,  the  care  'e  takes  of  'er.  It's  un 
canny,"  Grace  told  her  sweetheart. 

Her  sweetheart  was  a  policeman  at  this  moment;  his 
profession  did  not  make  for  sentiment.  "Father,  by  gum! 
Fat  lot  o'  care  your  father  took  o'  you,  I'll  bet." 

Grace's  father  was  a  cabby  and  was  known  to  the  Bar- 
rington  household  as  Mr.  Grace — a  name  of  Peter's  be 
stowing.  He  drove  a  four-wheeler  and  had  a  red  face. 
His  stand  was  at  the  bottom  of  Topbury  Crescent,  which 
formed  the  blade  to  the  sickle  of  which  the  Terrace  was 
the  handle. 

When  Kay  was  beginning  to  toddle,  her  cot  was  trans 
ferred  from  her  parents'  to  Peter's  bedroom.  Nan  was 
none  too  strong  and  Barrington  could  not  afford  to  be 
roused  at  five  in  the  morning — he  worked  too  hard  and  re 
quired  all  his  rest.  Had  Peter's  wishes  been  consulted, 
this  was  just  how  he  would  have  arranged  matters.  From 


66  THE    RAFT 

the  moment  when  the  light  went  out  to  the  moment  when 
his  eyelids  reluctantly  lowered,  he  had  Kay  all  to  himself. 
Throwing  off  the  clothes,  he  would  slip  out  and  kneel  be 
side  her  cot,  softying  her  with  his  face  and  hands.  He 
had  to  do  this  carefully  lest  he  should  be  heard.  Some 
times,  in  stepping  out,  the  mattress  squeaked  and  a  voice 
would  call  up  the  tall  dim  stairs,  "Peter,  are  you  in  bed?" 
An  interval  would  elapse  while  he  hurried  back;  then  he 
would  answer  truthfully,  "Yes."  Often  the  voice  would 
say  knowingly,  "You  are  now." 

But  the  temptation  was  too  great.  It  was  so  wonderful 
to  touch  her  in  the  darkness,  to  hear  her  stir,  to  feel  her 
hand  brush  his  cheek  and  the  warm  sleepy  lips  turned  to 
ward  his  mouth. 

"It's  only  Peter,"  he  would  whisper;  and,  perhaps,  he 
would  add,  "Little  Kay,  aren't  you  glad  I  borned  you?" 

Oh  yes,  it  was  he  who  had  contrived  her  birth.  There, 
as  a  proof,  was  the  big  dim  cupboard  where  it  had  all 
commenced. 

In  the  shadowy  darkness  of  the  room,  before  Grace  came 
up  to  undress,  he  lived  in  a  world  of  fancy.  Through  the 
oblong  of  the  doorway  the  faint  gold  glimmered,  made  by 
the  lowered  gas.  In  the  square  of  the  window,  as  in  a 
magic  mirror,  all  kinds  of  strange  things  happened.  Great 
soft  clouds  moved  across  it,  like  mountains  marching. 
Presently  they  would  stand  aside,  giving  him  glimpses  of 
deep  lagoons  and  floating  lands.  Stars  would  dance  out, 
like  children  holding  hands,  and  wink  and  twinkle  at  him. 
The  moon  would  let  down  her  silver  ladder,  smiling  to 
him  to  ascend.  He  laughed  back  and  shook  his  head.  Oh, 
no  thank  you ;  Kay  needed  his  attention. 

Beneath  the  sky  was  a  muffled  world,  like  a  Whistler 
nocturne,  of  house-tops  and  drowsy  murmurs.  It  was  a 
vague  field  of  seething  shadows  in  which  the  blur  of  street- 
lamps  was  a  daffodil  forest.  Dwellings  which  were  blind 
all  day,  in  streets  he  had  never  traversed,  now  peered 
stealthily  from  behind  their  curtains  with  the  unblinking 
eyes  of  cats.  What  did  they  do  down  there?  Church  bells 


67 

in  the  Vale  of  Holloway  would  try  to  tell  him.  Some 
times  strains  of  a  barrel-organ  would  drift  up  merrily  and 
he  would  picture  how  ragged  children  danced,  beating  time 
with  rapid  feet  upon  the  muddy  pavement.  Sometimes  in 
the  distance,  like  a  scarlet  fear,  a  train  would  shoot  across 
the  murk  and  vanish. 

But  always  from  these  wanderings  his  imagination  would 
return  to  the  cot  where  the  little  sister  nestled.  Who  was  it 
put  the  thought  into  his  head?  Was  it  some  strange  con 
fusion  between  winking  stars  and  the  Bethlehem  story? 
Or  was  it  Grace  in  one  of  her  flights  of  poetry?  Long  ago, 
he  told  himself,  like  this  the  Boy  Jesus  must  have  sat 
keeping  guard  over  a  baby  sister,  while  at  the  bottom  of 
a  tall  steep  house  Mary  helped  Joseph,  making  chairs  and 
tables. 

Once  Peter  gave  things  away  completely  by  trusting  too 
much  to  his  wakefulness ;  he  was  found  asleep  on  the  floor 
beside  Kay's  cot  when  Grace  came  up  to  undress. 

If  the  nights  had  their  spice  of  adventure  because  such 
doings  were  forbidden,  the  mornings  were  not  to  be  sneered 
at.  He  would  be  wakened  by  a  small  hand  stroking  his 
face  and  she  would  snuggle  into  bed  beside  him.  Years 
after,  when  he  was  a  man,  he  remembered  the  sensation  of 
her  cold  feet  when  she  had  found  him  difficult  to  rouse. 

But  the  greatest  treat  of  all  came  rarely.  When  his 
father  went  away  on  a  journey,  his  mother  could  cast  aside 
her  habits.  She  would  make  her  home  in  the  nursery  and 
hirelings  would  be  driven  out.  Grace  would  be  given  an 
evening  with  her  policeman,  and  Peter,  and  Kay,  and  Nan 
would  have  each  other  to  themselves.  If  it  were  winter, 
they  would  have  supper  by  firelight,  after  which  they 
would  sit  and  toast  themselves  while  Nan  told  stories  of 
her  girlhood.  Kay  would  be  taken  into  her  lap  and  Peter 
would  sit  on  the  rug,  cuddling  against  her  skirt. 

"How  did  Daddy  find  you,  Mummy?" 

And  when  that  had  been  told  in  a  simplified  version, 
"Mummy,  should  I  be  your  little  boy,  if  you'd  married 
someone  else?" 


68  THE    RAFT 

Since  there  seemed  some  doubt,  Peter  made  haste  to 
assure  her,  "Dearest,  I'm  so,  so  glad." 

In  the  dancing  flames  and  shadows,  Kay  would  be  un 
dressed  and  popped  into  the  tin-bath  while  Peter  helped. 
Then,  all  warm  and  snuggly,  she  would  be  carried  to  her 
mother's  bed.  In  a  short  time  Peter  would  follow  and 
fall  asleep  with  his  arms  about  her. 

Toward  midnight  he  would  rouse ;  the  gas  was  lit  and 
someone  was  rustling.  Looking  down  the  bed,  he  would 
see  his  mother  with  her  gold  hair  loose  about  her  shoulders. 
"Hush,"  she  would  whisper,  placing  her  finger  against  her 
mouth.  So  he  would  lie  still,  watching  her  shadow  on  the 
walls  and  ceiling.  Again  the  room  was  in  darkness ;  his 
face  was  hidden  in  her  breast  as  she  clasped  him  to  her. 
He  was  thinking  how  lucky  it  was  that  his  father  had  found 
her. 

In  the  morning  Kay  would  wake  them,  climbing  across 
their  legs  or  losing  herself  beneath  the  bed-clothes.  Just 
to  be  different  from  all  other  mornings,  they  would  have 
their  breakfast  before  they  dressed.  What  an  adventure 
they  made  of  it  and  what  good  times  they  had ! 

In  after  years,  looking  back,  Peter  realized  what  children 
he  had  had  for  parents ;  they  seemed  anything  but  children 
then.  His  father  was  not  too  old  to  be  a  lion  on  hands 
and  knees  beneath  the  table,  trying  to  catch  him  as  he 
ran  round.  At  last  his  mother  would  cry  out,  "Billy, 
dearest,  do  stop  it.  You'll  get  the  boy  excited." 

And  then  there  were  those  empty  rooms  at  the  top  of 
the  house  to  be  furnished.  Peter's  father  led  him  all  over 
London,  visiting  beery  old  women  and  dingy  old  men, 
whose  shops  to  the  unpracticed  eye  were  stocked  with 
rubbish.  Oak  paneling,  bronzes,  French  clocks,  canvases 
dim  with  dirt,  were  discovered  and  carried  home  in  tri 
umph.  For  the  canvases  frames  had  to  be  hunted  out ; 
the  pursuit  was  endless.  These  treasures  were  driven  home 
in  cabs,  taking  up  so  much  room  that  Peter  had  to  make 
himself  smaller.  Nan  would  fly  to  the  door  as  the  wheels 
halted  on  the  Terrace. 


KAY   AND    SOME    OTHERS  69 

"Peter,  why  did  you  let  him?  Oh,  Billy,  how  extrava 
gant  !" 

"But,  my  dear,  it's  an  investment.  I  paid  next  to  nothing 
and  wouldn't  sell  it  for  a  thousand  pounds." 

"Couldn't,"  she  corrected;  but,  as  was  proved  later,  she 
was  wrong  in  that. 

When  the  empty  rooms  were  furnished — the  oak  bed 
room  and  the  Italian — the  modern  furnishings  in  other 
parts  of  the  house  were  gradually  supplanted ;  even  the 
staircase  was  hung  with  paintings  which  Barrington  re 
stored  himself.  There  was  one  little  drawback  to  these 
prowlings  through  London  which  Peter  was  too  proud  to 
mention :  his  father  as  he  walked  would  pinch  his  hand 
to  show  his  affection — but  it  hurt.  He  knew  why  his 
father  did  it,  so  he  did  not  tell  him.  He  bit  his  lips  instead 
to  keep  back  the  tears. 

Four  other  people  stole  across  his  childish  horizon  like 
wisps  of  cloud — the  Misses  Jacobite.  They  lived  in  an 
old-fashioned  house  in  Topbury  and  kept  no  servants. 
Peter  got  to  know  them  because  they  smiled  at  him  coming 
in  and  going  out  of  church.  There  was  Miss  Florence, 
who  was  tall  and  reserved ;  and  Miss  Effie,  who  was  little 
and  talkative;  and  Miss  Madge,  who  was  fat  and  jolly; 
and  Miss  Leah,  a  shadow-woman,  who  sat  always  in  a 
darkened  room  with  pale  hands  folded,  crooning  to  her 
self. 

People  said  "Poor  thing!  Oh  well,  there's  no  good 
blaming  her  now.  She  wouldn't  thank  us  for  our  pity; 
after  all,  she  brought  it  on  herself." 

Or  they  said,  "You  know,  they  were  quite  proud  once — 
the  belles  of  Topbury.  Two  of  them  were  engaged  to 
be  married.  Their  father  was  alive  then — the  Squire  we 

called  him.  But  after  Miss  Leah "  They  dropped 

their  voices  till  they  came  to  the  last  sentence,  "And  the 
disgrace  of  it  killed  the  old  chap." 

Even  Grace,  when  she  took  Kay  and  Peter  to  visit  them, 
left  them  if  she  could  on  the  doorstep.  Her  righteous 
mood  asserted  itself ;  she  flounced  her  skirt  in  departing, 


70  THE    RAFT 

shaking  off  the  dust  from  her  feet  for  a  testimony  against 
them.  "Scand'lous,  I  calls  it.  If  I  wuz  to  do  like  'er,  yer 
ma  wouldn't  let  me  touch  yer.  But  o'  course,  it's  different ; 
I'm  only  a  sarvant-gal.  And  they  'olds  their  'eads  so  'igh  I 
Brazen,  I  calls  it.  Before  I  walked  the  streets  where  a 
thing  like  that  'ad  'appened  in  my  family,  I'd  sink  into 
my  grave  fust — that  I  would.  I  'ate  the  thought  of  their 
kissing  yer,  my  precious  lambs." 

Peter  was  always  wondering  what  it  was  that  Miss 
Leah  had  brought  upon  herself.  Whatever  it  was,  it  stayed 
with  her  in  the  room  with  the  lowered  blinds  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  She  never  went  out;  callers  never  saw  her. 
Her  eyes  were  vague,  as  though  she  had  wept  away  their 
color.  She  spoke  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  as  in  a  dream ;  and 
her  attention  had  to  be  drawn  to  anything  before  she  saw 
it.  But  it  was  her  singing  that  shocked  and  thrilled  Peter, 
making  him  both  pitiful  and  frightened.  Her  song  never 
varied  and  never  quite  came  to  an  end ;  she  repeated  it 
over  and  over.  You  could  hear  it  in  the  hall,  the  moment 
you  entered ;  it  went  on  at  intervals  until  you  left.  She 
sang  it  with  empty  hands,  sitting  without  motion: 

"On  the  other  side  of  Jordan 
In  the  sweet  fields  of  Eden 
Where  the  Tree  of  Life  is  growing 
There  is  rest  for  me." 

Where  were  the  "sweet  fields  of  Eden"?  Peter  liked 
the  sound  of  them  and  would  have  asked  her,  had  not  some 
thing  held  him  back.  She  must  be  very  tired,  he  thought, 
to  be  singing  always  about  rest.  Yet  he  never  saw  her 
work. 

He  had  been  there  many  times  and  had  only  heard  her, 
until  one  day,  as  he  was  scampering  down  the  passage 
with  Miss  Madge  pursuing,  the  door  opened  and  a  woman 
with  dim  eyes  and  hair  as  white  as  snow  looked  out.  She 
gazed  at  him  without  interest ;  but  when  Kay  toddled  up 
to  her  fearlessly,  she  stooped  and  caught  her  to  her  breast. 

Several  things  about  the  Misses  Jacobite  struck  Peter 


KAY   AND    SOME    OTHERS  71 

as  funny.  They  divided  the  visit  up,  so  that  each  might 
have  a  child  for  part  of  it  entirely  to  herself.  Each  would 
behave  during  that  time  as  though  she  were  a  mother 
famished  for  affection,  returned  from  a  long  journey,  and 
would  invent  secrets  which  were  to  be  shared  by  nobody 
but  the  child  and  herself.  Kay  and  Peter  were  carried 
off  into  separate  rooms,  and  there  played  with  and  cuddled 
by  a  solitary  Miss  Jacobite.  Though  the  Misses  Jacobite 
were  obviously  poor,  the  children  always  went  home  with 
a  present;  often  enough  it  was  a  toy  from  the  dusty,  dis 
used  nursery.  When  they  met  Kay  and  Peter  on  Sun 
days  and  people  were  watching,  they  pretended  to  forget 
the  other  things  that  had  happened. 

"I  wonder  you  let  your  children  go  there,"  people  said. 

Nan  smiled  slowly  and  answered  softly,  gathering  Kay 
and  Peter  to  her.  "Poor  things!  They  were  robbed  of 
everything.  I  have  so  much  I  don't  deserve.  I  can  spare 
them  a  little  of  my  gladness." 

"But,  Mrs.  Harrington,  that's  mere  sentiment.  How  does 
your  husband  allow  it?" 

One  day  Nan's  husband  spoke  up  for  himself.  "Did 
you  ever  hear  of  the  raft?  I  thought  not.  Well,  Nan  and 
I  have." 


CHAPTER   X 
WAFFLES   BETTERS  HIMSELF 

IT  was  the  month  of  June.  A  breeze  blowing  in  at  the 
open  window  fluttered  out  the  muslin  curtains  and  shook 
loose  the  petals  of  roses  standing  on  the  table.  A  milk- 
cart  rattled  down  the  Terrace,  clattering  its  cans.  Sounds, 
which  drifted  in  from  the  primrose-tinted  world,  were  all 
what  Peter  would  have  described  as  "early."  The  walls 
of  the  room  were  splashed  with  great  streaks  of  sunlight, 
which  lit  up  some  of  the  pictures  with  peculiar  intensity 
and  left  others  in  contrasting  shadow.  One  of  those  which 
were  thus  illumined  was  a  Dutch  landscape  by  Cuyp,  hang 
ing  against  the  dark  oak  paneling  above  a  blue  couch; 
it  represented  a  comfortable  burgher  strolling  in  conversa 
tion  with  two  women  on  the  banks  of  a  canal.  Barrington 
liked  to  face  it  while  he  sat  at  breakfast;  it  gave  him  a 
certain  indifference  to  worry  before  the  rush  of  the  day 
commenced.  But  this  morning,  to  judge  by  his  puckered 
forehead,  it  had  not  produced  its  usual  effect.  He  glanced 
up  from  the  letter  he  was  reading  and  tossed  it  across  to 
Nan.  "What  d'you  make  of  that?" 

She  bent  over  it,  wrinkling  her  brows.  The  letter  was 
in  a  man's  handwriting  and  the  postscript,  which  was  of 
nearly  equal  length,  was  in  a  woman's. 

"I  don't  know;  if  it  was  from  anyone  but  Ocky " 

"Precisely,  Ocky's  a  fool.  He's  always  been  a  fool  and 
"he's  growing  worse ;  but  Jehane  ought  to  have  sounder 
sense.  It's  beyond  me  why  she  married  him.  I  never  did 
understand  Jehane;  I  suppose  I  never  shall." 

"You're  not  a  woman,  Billy ;  or  else  you  would.  She 
was  sick  and  tired  of  being  lonely  and  dependent;  she 

72 


WAFFLES    BETTERS    HIMSELF  73 

wanted  someone  to  take  care  of  her.  Ocky  was  the  only 
man  who  offered.  But  that's  eight  years  ago — I'm  afraid 
she's  found  him  out;  and  she's  doing  her  best  to  persuade 
herself  that  she  hasn't.  Poor  Jehane,  she  always  admired 
strong  men — men  she  could  worship." 

"That  explains  but  it  doesn't  excuse  her.  She  had  a 
strong  man  in  Captain  Spashett ;  the  hurry  of  her  second 
marriage  was  indecent.  I  never  did  approve  of  it.  I  said 
nothing  at  first  because  I  thought  she  might  help  Ocky  to 
grow  a  backbone. — And  now  there's  this  new  folly,  which 
she  appears  to  encourage." 

"But,  dear,  is  it  so  foolish?  Perhaps,  she's  given  him 
a  backbone  and  that's  why  he's  done  it."  She  laughed  ner 
vously.  "They  both  say  that  this  is  a  great  opportunity 
for  him  to  better  himself." 

"Bah !  The  only  way  for  Ocky  to  better  himself  is  to 
change  his  character.  He's  a  balloon — a  gas-bag;  he'll  go 
up  in  the  air  and  burst.  The  higher  he  goes,  the  further 
he'll  have  to  tumble.  You  think  I'm  harsh  with  him ;  I 
know  him.  Jehane's  done  him  no  good ;  she  despises  him, 
I'm  sure,  though  she  doesn't  think  she  shows  it.  She's 
filled  his  head  with  stupid  ambitions  and  before  she's  done 
she'll  land  him  in  a  mess.  She's  driven  him  to  this  bravado 
with  private  naggings ;  he  wants  to  prove  to  her  that  he» 
really  is  a  man.  Man !  He's  a  child  in  her  hands.  It  hurts 
me  to  watch  them  together.  Why  can't  she  be  a  wife  to 
him  and  make  up  her  mind  that  she's  married  a  donkey?" 

"It's  difficult  for  a  woman  to  make  up  her  mind  to  that 
— especially  a  proud,  impatient  woman." 

He  paid  no  attention  to  his  wife's  interruption,  but  went 
on  irritably  with  what  he  was  saying. 

"So  he's  giving  up  a  secure  job,  and  he's  going  into  this 
harum-scarum  plan  for  buying  up  the  sands  of  Sandport 
for  nothing  and  selling  them  as  house-plots  for  a  for 
tune.  Even  if  there  were  anything  in  it,  who's  going  to 
finance  him?  Of  course  he'll  come  to  me  as  usual." 

"But  he  says  he's  got  the  capital." 

"That's  just  it — from  where?     His  pocket  always  had 


74  THE   RAFT 

a  hole  in  it.  When  he  says  he's  got  money,  I  don't  believe 
him;  when  he's  proved  his  word  I  grow  nervous." 

Barrington  leant  across  the  table,  rapping  with  his 
knuckles.  "Ocky's  the  kind  of  amiable  weak  fellow  who 
can  easily  be  made  bad — especially  by  a  woman  who  re 
fuses  to  love  him.  Once  a  man  like  that's  gone  under, 
you  can  never  bring  him  back — he's  lost  what  staying  qual 
ity  he  ever  had." 

Nan  rarely  argued  with  her  husband.  Pushing  back  her 
chair,  she  went  and  knelt  beside  him,  pressing  her  soft 
cheek  against  his  hand.  "You  are  a  silly  Billy,  dearest, 
to  be  so  serious  on  such  a  happy  morning.  There's  no 
danger  of  Ocky  ever  becoming  bad ;  and,  in  any  case,  what's 
this  got  to  do  with  the  matter?  I  know  he's  foolish  and 
his  jokes  get  on  your  nerves;  but  it  isn't  his  fault  that  he's 
not  clever  like  you.  You  shouldn't  be  gloomy  just  because 
he's  going  to  be  daring.  I  don't  wonder  he's  sick  of  that 
lawyer's  office.  And  it's  absurd  to  think  that  he's  going 
to  be  bad ;  look  how  Peter  loves  him.  You  like  Ocky  more 
than  you  pretend,  now  don't  you?" 

"If  liking's  being  sorry.  I'm  always  sorry  for  an  ass; 
and  I'm  angry  with  Jehane  because  she  knows  better.  She's 
doing  this  because  she's  jealous  of  you — that's  why  she 
clutches  at  this  bubble  chance  of  prosperity." 

"Ar'n't  you  a  little  unjust  to  her,  Billy?  Since  our  mar 
riage,  you've  always  been  unjust  to  her.  You  know  why 
she's  jealous — she  wants  her  husband  to  be  like  you." 

Her  voice  sank  away  to  a  whisper.  "Oh,  Janey,  I  did, 
I  did  play  fair,"  she  had  said  that  night  at  Cassingland ; 
in  her  violent  assertion  of  fairness  there  had  been  an 
implied  question  which  Jehane  had  never  answered.  Both 
she  and  her  husband  knew  that  they  had  never  been  ac 
quitted. 

Barrington  drew  Nan's  head  against  his  shoulder.  "Poor 
people."  Then  he  kissed  her  with  new  and  eager  glad 
ness. 

"And  it  isn't  only  pity  you  feel  for  Ocky?"  She  per 
sisted.  "Now  confess." 


WAFFLES    BETTERS    HIMSELF  75 

He  pulled  out  his  watch  hastily  and,  having  replaced 
it,  gulped  down  his  coffee.  "When  I  was  Peter's  age,  we 
were  brought  up  like  brothers  together.  I  loved  him  then; 
I'm  disappointed  in  him  now.  And  yet  I'm  always  catching 
glimpses  in  him  of  the  little  chap  I  played  with.  You 
see,  at  school  I  was  the  stronger  and  had  to  protect  him, 
I  was  always  fighting  his  battles.  And  one  whole  term, 
when  his  hand  was  poisoned,  I  had  to  take  him  to  the 

doctor  to  get  it  dressed No,  it  isn't  only  pity,  Pepper- 

minta :  it's  memories." 

As  he  was  going  out  of  the  door  she  called  after  him,. 
"Then,  I  suppose,  I  can  write  and  say  we'll  have  them?" 

"While  they're  moving — the  children?    Yes." 

"Jehane  doesn't  say  how  many." 

"She  means  all,  I  expect.  There's  the  garden  for  them 
— it'll  be  fun  for  Kay  and  Peter." 

A  week  later,  Jehane  traveled  across  London  to  Top- 
bury  Terrace,  bringing  with  her  Glory,  aged  nine,  Riska, 
aged  six,  and  her  youngest  child,  Eustace,  who  was  the 
same  age  as  Kathleen.  Jehane  was  now  in  her  thirty- 
seventh  year,  a  striking  brooding  type  of  woman.  As  her 
face  had  grown  thinner  and  her  cheeks  had  lost  their  color, 
the  gipsy  blackness  of  her  appearance  had  become  more 
noticeable.  She  still  had  a  fine  figure,  so  that  men  in 
public  conveyances  would  furtively  lower  their  papers  to 
gaze  at  her.  There  clung  about  her  an  atmosphere  of  ad 
venture,  of  which  she  was  not  entirely  unaware.  She  was 
unconquerably  romantic,  and  would  spin  herself  stories  in 
the  silence  of  her  fancy  of  a  love  that  was  crushing  in  its 
intensity.  No  one  would  have  guessed  from  the  hard  little 
lines  about  the  corners  of  her  eyes  and  mouth  that  this 
imaginative  tenderness  formed  part  of  her  character. 

Since  the  birth  of  Eustace  her  hair  had  fallen  out  in 
handfuls  and  she  had  adopted  a  style  of  dressing  it  that 
was  distinctly  unbecoming.  She  had  had  her  combings  made 
up  into  an  affair  which  Glory  called  "Ma's  mat."  It  con 
sisted  of  half-a-dozen  curls,  sewn  together  in  rows  like 
sausages,  which  she  pinned  across  the  top  of  her  head  so 


76  THE   RAFT 

that  they  made  a  fringe  along  her  forehead.  It  gave  her 
an  old-fashioned  look  of  prim  severity.  Jehane  retained 
for  Nan  an  affection  which  was  partly  genuine  and  partly 
habit;  but  she  resented  Nan's  youthful  appearance  with 
slow  jealous  anger,  attributing  it  to  freedom  from  anxiety 
and  the  possession  of  money.  As  for  Nan,  her  attitude 
was  one  of  gentle  and  atoning  apology  for  her  happiness. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  brought  the  children  yourself,  Janey." 

"And  who  could  have  brought  them?  I'm  not  like  you 
— I  only  keep  two  servants.  When  this  scheme  of  Ocky's 
has  turned  out  all  right,  perhaps  it  may  be  different." 

She  turned  swiftly  on  Nan  with  latent  defiance,  as  though 
challenging  her  to  express  doubt. 

"I'm  sure  both  Billy  and  I  hope  it  will.  Wouldn't  it 
be  splendid  to  see  Ocky  really  a  big  man?" 

"It  would  be  a  good  deal  more  than  splendid.  It  would 
mean  the  end  of  little  houses  and  cheap  servants  and 
neighbors  that  you  can't  introduce  to  your  father's  friends. 
It  would  mean  the  end  of  pinching  and  scraping  to  save  a 
penny.  And  it  would  mean  a  chance  for  my  girls." 

Nan  slipped  an  arm  into  hers  and  hugged  it.  "Dear  old 
thing,  I  think  I  understand.  And  when  is  Ocky  coming 
over  to  tell  us  all  about  it?  He  gave  us  hardly  any  de 
tails  in  his  letter." 

Jehane  became  evasive.  "He's  naturally  very  busy.  The 
chance  developed  so  suddenly  that  he's  hardly  had  time 
to  turn  round.  It  came  to  him  through  a  client  at  the 
office.  Mr.  Playfair  had  noticed  him  at  his  desk  as  he 
passed  in  and  out  to  see  Mr.  Wagstaff.  He's  told  Ocky 
since  that  he  spotted  him  at  once  and  said  to  himself,  'If 
ever  I  want  a  chap  with  business  push  and  legal  knowledge, 
that's  my  man.' " 

"And  he's  never  talked  with  him  ?" 

"Hardly.  Not  much  more  than  to  say  'How  d'you  do?' 
or  'Good-morning'." 

"Wasn't  it  wonderful  that  he  should  have  sized  him  up 
in  a  flash?" 

Jehane  glanced  at  her  narrowly.     "It  may  be  wonderful 


WAFFLES    BETTERS    HIMSELF  77 

to  you;  it  isn't  to  me.  I'm  well  aware  that  you  and  Billy 
don't  think  much  of  Ocky.  Oh,  where's  the  sense  in  dis 
owning  it?  You  both  think  he's  a  born  fool." 

"I'm  sure  you  never  heard  Billy  say  that." 

"Heard  him  say  it !  Of  course  I  didn't.  I'd  like  to  hear 
him  dare  to  say  anything  like  that  about  my  husband.  But 
actions  speak  louder  than  words.  He  thinks  it  just  the 
same;  he  thinks  that  Ocky's  good  for  nothing  but  to  sit 
at  a  desk,  taking  a  salary  from  another  man.  P'rhaps,  you 
didn't  know  that  for  years  Ocky's  been  the  brains  of  that 
office?" 

Nan  lifted  her  honest  eyes;  she  was  filled  with  discom 
fort.  This  kind  of  controversy  was  always  happening 
when  they  met;  they  drifted  into  some  sort  of  feud  for 
which  Jehane  invariably  held  her  responsible.  "The  brains 
of  the  office !  No,  indeed,  I  never  heard  that.  Why  didn't 
you  tell  us?" 

"Because  you  and  Billy  thought  he  was  incompetent,  and 
it  didn't  seem  worth  the  trouble  to  correct  you." 

"I'm  sure  I've  always  thought  him  very  kind,  especially 
to  Peter." 

"Kind!     What's  kindness  got  to  do  with  being  clever?" 

Nan  pressed  Jehane  to  stay  to  dinner.  She  would  send 
a  telegram  to  Ocky;  she  would  send  her  home  in  a  cab. 
But  Jehane  was  in  an  ungracious  mood  and  eager  to  take 
offense.  She  resented  the  implication  that  a  cab  was  a 
luxury.  No,  she  couldn't  stay;  there  was  too  much  to  do. 
She  had  intended  to  return  in  a  cab,  anyhow.  In  reality 
she  was  anxious  to  avoid  Barrington's  shrewd  questioning. 
She  was  rising  to  take  her  departure,  when  she  saw  him 
descending  the  garden  steps. 

"Ha,  Jehane !  This  is  luck.  I've  had  thoughts  of  you 
all  day.  That  letter's  got  on  my  nerves.  I  couldn't  work ; 
so  I  came  home  early. — Oh  no,  we're  not  going  to  let 
you  off  now.  You've  got  to  stop  and  tell  us.  By  the 
way,  before  Ocky  actually  decides,  I'd  like  to  talk  the 
whole  matter  over  with  him." 

"He's  decided  already." 


78  THE   RAFT 

"You  don't  mean " 

"Yes.  Why  not?  He's  given  Wagstaff  notice.  Things 
so  happened  that  he  had  to  make  up  his  mind  in  a  hurry 
or  lose  it. — But  I  really  ought  to  be  going.  Nan  knows 
everything  now." 

Barrington  placed  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  arrestingly. 
At  his  touch  she  drew  back  and  colored.  "This  thing's 
too  serious,  Jehane,"  he  said,  "to  be  dismissed  in  a  sentence. 
I  have  a  right  to  know." 

He  spoke  kindly,  but  she  answered  him  hotly.  "What 
right,  pray?" 

"Well,  if  anything  goes  wrong,  there's  only  me  to  fall 
back  on.  And  then  there's  the  right  of  friendship." 

"I  can't  say  you've  shown  yourself  over  friendly.  If 
you've  had  to  meet  Ocky,  you've  let  all  the  world  see  you 
were  irritated.  If  you've  ever  invited  him  to  your  house, 
you've  taken  very  good  care  that  no  one  important  was 
present.  One  would  judge  that  you  thought  he  lowered 
you.  I  can't  see  that  you  have  the  right  to  know  anything." 

"That  can  only  be  because  your  husband  hasn't  told  you. 
To  quote  one  instance,  it  was  through  my  influence  that  he 
got  this  position  that  he's  now  thrown  over — Wagstaff  is 
my  lawyer." 

Jehane  tossed  her  head.  "You  always  want  to  make  out 

that  he  owes  you  everything Well,  what  is  it  that  I'm 

forced  to  tell  you?" 

Barrington  kept  silence  while  they  walked  down  the  path 
to  where  chairs  were  spread  beneath  the  cedar.  The  chil 
dren  ran  up  boisterously  to  greet  him ;  having  kissed  them, 
he  told  Grace  to  take  them  away  and  to  keep  them  quiet. 
When  he  spoke,  his  tones  were  grave  and  measured :  "It 
wasn't  fair  of  Ocky  to  send  you  to  tell  us ;  he  ought  to  have 
come  himself." 

"He  didn't  send " 

Barrington  held  up  his  hand.  "You  can't  tell  me  any 
thing  on  that  score ;  from  the  first  he's  shirked  responsibil 
ity.  He  would  never  fight  if  he  could  get  anyone  else  to 
fight  for  him.  Many  and  many's  the  time  I've  had  to  do 


WAFFLES   BETTERS    HIMSELF  79 

his  dirty  work.  Now  you're  doing  it.  This  is  unpleasant 
hearing,  Jehane ;  but  you  know  it's  true.  I'd  take  a  wager 
that  you  spent  hours  trying  to  screw  up  his  courage  to  make 
him  come  himself." 

She  lifted  her  head  to  deny  it,  but  his  quiet  gray  eyes 
met  hers.  Their  sympathy  and  justice  disturbed  her.  She 

refused  to  be  pitied  by  this  man .  A  great  fear  rose  in 

her  throat.  What  if  his  opinion  of  her  husband  were  cor 
rect?  It  was  the  opinion  she  herself  had  had  for  years  and 
had  tried  to  stifle.  Time  and  again  she  had  listened  to  his 
plausibility — his  boastings  that  he  was  the  brains  of  the  of 
fice,  that  luck  was  against  him  and  that  one  day  he  would 
show  the  world.  She  had  used  his  arguments  to  defend  him 
to  her  relations  and  friends.  In  public  she  had  made  a 
parade  of  being  proud  of  him.  In  private  she  had  tried  to 
ridicule  him  out  of  his  shame-faced  manners.  And  now 
she  was  trying  so  hard  to  believe  that  he  had  found  his  op 
portunity. — It  was  cruel  of  Barrington,  especially  cruel 
when  he  knew  quite  well  that  it  was  him  she  had  loved. 
She  could  not  endure  to  sit  still  and  hear  him  voice  her  own 
suspicious  and  calmly  analyze  the  folly  of  her  marriage. 

"If  you  think  that  my  husband  was  afraid  to  come  and 
tell  you,  the  only  way  to  prove  the  contrary  is  to  let  him 
come  himself  to-morrow." 

"I  shall  be  more  than  glad  to  see  him." 

But  Ocky  did  not  come  to-morrow,  nor  the  next  day. 
The  day  after  that  Barrington  went  to  see  his  lawyer. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Wagstaff.  I  should  like  to  speak  to 
you  about  my  cousin,  Mr.  Waffles." 

Mr.  Wagstaff  twitched  his  trousers  up  to  prevent  them 
from  rucking  as  he  crossed  his  legs.  "If  there's  anything  I 
can  do  to  help  you,  Mr.  Barrington " 

"I  understand  he's  given  you  notice." 

Mr.  Wagstaff  sat  up  suddenly.  "Understand  what?  He 
told  you  that?" 

"No,  he  did  not  tell  me.    His  wife  did." 

"Ah,  his  wife!  He  left  her  to  make  the  explanations. 
Just  what  one  might  expect." 


8o  THE   RAFT 

"Then  he  didn't  give  you  notice?" 

"Course  not."  Mr.  WagstafF  spoke  testily,  as  though  for 
an  employee  to  give  him  notice  was  an  event  beyond  the 
bounds  of  possibility. 

"Then  he  left  without  notifying  you?" 

"Well,  hardly." 

The  lawyer  noticed  that  the  door  leading  into  the  main 
office  was  ajar;  he  got  up  and  closed  it.  When  he  returned 
he  did  not  re-seat  himself,  but  straddled  the  hearth-rug, 
holding  up  his  coat-tails  although  no  fire  was  burning. 

"Mr.  Harrington,  sir,  I  put  up  with  your  cousin's  shift- 
lessness  for  longer  that  I  ought  to  have  done ;  I  did  it  out 
of  respect  for  you,  sir.  There  was  a  time  when  I  hoped  I 
might  make  something  of  him.  He  can  be  nimble-witted 
over  trifles  and  his  own  affairs ;  but  he  never  put  any  in 
terest  into  my  work.  He  was  insubordinate — not  to  my 
face,  you  understand,  but  when  my  back  was  turned ;  he 
wasn't  a  good  influence  in  the  office.  I  tell  you  this,  sir,  to 
prove  that  I  haven't  acted  without  consideration." 

The  lawyer  waggled  his  coat-tails  and  seemed  to  find  a 
blemish  in  his  boots,  so  earnestly  did  he  regard  them.  When 
he  received  no  help  from  Barrington,  he  suddenly  came  to 
the  point  and  looked  up  sharply. 

"He  betrayed  professional  confidence;  so  I  sacked  him." 

"Had  it  happened  before  ?" 

"Possibly.  He  was  always  garrulous.  This  time  it  was 
an  affair  of  some  property  at  Sandport.  Our  client  had 
two  competing  purchasers,  one  of  whom  was  a  Mr.  Play- 
fair.  Your  cousin  leaked  to  Mr.  Play  fair — kept  him  in 
formed  as  to  what  the  other  purchaser  was  doing.  Not  a 
nice  thing  to  occur,  Mr.  Barrington." 

This  last  remark  was  as  much  an  interrogation  as  an  as 
sertion.  The  lawyer  waited  for  his  opinion  to  be  indorsed. 

"Not  at  all  nice,"  Barrington  assented.  "If  it's  lost  you 
any  money,  I  must  refund  it." 

"  'Tisn't  a  question  of  money.    Wouldn't  hear  of  that." 

As  Mr.  Wagstaff  shook  hands  at  parting,  he  offered  a 
crumb  of  comfort :  "Mind,  I  don't  say  your  cousin  is  dis- 


WAFFLES    BETTERS    HIMSELF  81 

honest,  Mr.  Barrington ;  that  would  be  too,  too  strong.  Per 
haps,  it  would  be  better  stated  by  saying  that  his  sense  of 
honor  is  rudimentary." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Barrington  brusquely.    "I  think  I  catch 
your  meaning." 


CHAPTER   XI 
THE   HOME   LIFE   OF  A   FINANCIER 

PEOPLE  who  loved  Ocky  Waffles  always  loved  him  for 
his  good ;  he  would  have  preferred  to  have  been  loved  for 
almost  any  other  purpose.  Affection,  in  his  experience, 
turned  friends  into  schoolmasters.  There  was  Barrington, 
a  fine  chap  and  all  that;  but  why  the  dickens  did  he  take 
such  endless  pains  to  be  so  uselessly  unpleasant? 

Ocky  was  on  the  lookout  for  Jehane  when  she  returned 
from  Topbury.  As  she  turned  the  corner,  he  espied  her 
from  behind  the  curtains  and  lit  his  pipe  to  give  himself 
confidence.  No  sooner  had  she  entered  than  she  commenced 
an  account  of  her  visit,  indignantly  underlining  her  inter 
view  with  Barrington.  Ocky  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of 
the  table,  puffing  away  and  swinging  his  legs. 

"Wants  to  see  me,  does  he?  He  can  go  on  wanting.  I'm 
sick  of  his  interfering.  A  fat  lot  he's  ever  done  to  help 
me !  And  with  his  position  and  friends  he  could  have 
helped  me — instead  of  that  he  gives  me  his  advice.  Truth 
is,  Jehane,  he  doesn't  want  to  see  us  climb ;  he'd  rather  be 
the  patron  of  the  family.  With  the  best  intentions  in  the 
world,  he's  out  to  put  a  spoke  in  my  wheel.  Oh,  I  know 
him ! — If  he's  so  anxious  for  information,  he  can  come  here 
to  get  it." 

While  he  spoke  he  scrutinized  his  wife,  judging  the  effect 
of  his  blustering  independence.  She  was  suspicious  of  some 
hidden  knowledge ;  he  felt  it.  Something  had  been  said 
behind  his  back  at  Topbury — something  derogatory.  Could 
Barrington  have  heard  already. 

Pressing  down  the  ashes  in  the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  he 
struck  a  match.  Jehane  was  between  himself  and  the  door ; 

82 


THE    HOME    LIFE    OF   A   FINANCIER       83 

he  wondered  whether  he  could  slip  past  her  and  make  his 
exit  if  things  became  unpleasant.  He  detested  being  cor 
nered;  he  could  be  so  much  braver  when  the  means  of 
escape  lay  behind  him.  Meanwhile,  it  seemed  good  policy 
to  continue  talking. 

"I  don't  like  the  way  they  treat  you  at  Topbury ;  you  al 
ways  come  home  down-hearted.  There's  too  much  conde 
scension.  Nan  overdoes  it  when  she  tries  to  be  kind.  The 
rich  relation  attitude !  It  riles  me.  When  she  makes  you 
a  present  it's  always  a  dress — might  just  as  well  tell  you  to 
your  face  that  you're  shabby.  And  last  Christmas,  sending 
Peter's  cast-off  clothes  to  Eustace !  Thank  God,  we're  not 
paupers  and  never  shall  be !" 

As  he  worked  himself  into  a  passion  Jehane  eyed  him 
somberly.  The  everlasting  pipe,  dangling  from  his  mouth, 
annoyed  her  immensely.  His  trousers,  bagging  at  the  knees, 
and  his  pockets,  stuffed  with  rubbish,  were  perpetual  eye 
sores  ;  she  hated  his  slack  appearance.  Other  men  with  his 
income  at  least  attained  neatness.  It  was  not  that  he  spared 

money  on  his  clothes .     She  caught  herself  comparing 

him  with  Harrington — Barrington  whose  tidy  body  was  the 
outward  sign  of  his  well-ordered  mind.  Her  husband  went 
on  talking  and  her  irritation  took  a  new  direction. 

"I'll  bet  a  fiver  what  they  said  when  you  told  'em.  'My 
dearest,  if  it  could  only  happen' — that's  Nan.  'Ah  yes ! 
Humph !  sand  at  Sandport !  We  must  talk  this  over  before 
he  decides' — that's  Barrington.  We  can  guess  what  his  ad- 
vice'll  amount  to,  can't  we,  old  Duchess?" 

It  was  safe  to  venture  the  endearment  now.  If  they  had 
nothing  else  in  common,  they  were  partners  in  their  ani 
mosities.  When  running  down  an  enemy  together,  he  could 
dare  to  express  his  affection  for  her;  his  way  of  doing  this 
was  to  call  her  Duchess.  At  other  times  she  would  brush 
him  aside  with,  "Don't  be  silly,  Ocky."  She  often  called 
him  "silly,"  treating  any  demonstration  as  tawdry  senti 
mentality.  She  had  no  idea  how  deeply  it  wounded. 

Now,  as  she  sank  into  the  chair,  he  bent  over  and  kissed 
her  awkwardly.  "Poor  old  gel,  they've  tired  you  out.  Had 


84  THE   RAFT 

nothing  to  eat  since  you  left  here,  I'll  warrant.  Put  up 
your  tootsies  and  I'll  pull  off  your  shoes ;  then  I'll  order 
some  supper  for  you." 

"I  couldn't  eat  anything." 

The  room  was  in  darkness  and  the  window  wide.  In  the 
street  children  were  screaming  and  playing.  A  mother, 
standing  on  her  doorstep,  called  to  her  truants  through  the 

dusk Oh,  for  a  gust  of  silence — a  desert  of  sound 

without  footsteps;  Jehane  felt  that  her  life  was  trespassed 
on,  jostled,  undignified.  Through  the  cramped  suburb  of 
red-brick  villas  crept  the  summer  night,  like  a  shameful 
woman  footsore  and  clad  in  lavender.  Red-brick  villas ! 
They  were  so  similar  that,  if  you  shook  them  up  in  a 
gigantic  hat  and  set  them  out  afresh,  the  streets  would  look 
in  no  way  different.  They  were  all  built  in  the  same  style. 
The  mortar  had  fallen  out  in  the  same  places.  The  front 
gardens  were  of  equal  dimensions.  They  had  no  indi 
viduality.  If  anyone  attempted  to  be  original  in  the  color 
of  her  paint  or  the  shape  of  her  curtains,  next  day  she  was 
copied. 

With  the  stale  odor  of  tobacco  mingled  the  sweet  frag 
rance  of  June  flowers.  She  had  only  to  close  her  eyes  and 
she  was  back  in  Oxford — Oxford  which  she  had  exchanged 
for  this  rash  experiment.  She  wondered,  had  she  been 
more  patient,  would  something  more  delightful  have  hap 
pened.  The  sameness  of  economy  had  worn  out  her 
strength  and  its  prospect  appalled  her. — If  Ocky  could  con 
trive  her  escape,  even  at  this  late  hour,  what  right  had 
Barrington  to  prevent  him? 

He  had  gone  to  fetch  her  slippers — that  at  least  was  kind 
and  thoughtful.  She  treated  him  with  spite.  She  shrank 
from  the  familiarity  of  his  touch.  She  hated  herself  for 
it;  and  yet  she  eked  out  the  seconds  of  her  respite  from 
him. 

A  lamp-lighter  shuffled  by  the  garden  railings ;  at  his 
magic,  primrose  pools  weltered  up  in  the  dusk. — This  busi 
ness  of  marriage — had  she  been  less  hasty,  she  might  have 


THE    HOME    LIFE   OF   A   FINANCIER       85 

done  better  for  herself.  Oh  well,  the  wisdom  which  fol 
lows  the  event  .  .  . 

Footsteps  on  the  stairs !  As  he  knelt  to  put  on  her  slip 
pers,  she  conquered  her  revulsion  and  let  her  hand  rest  on 
his  head.  He  started,  surprised :  it  was  long  since  she  had 
shown  him  affection.  His  voice  was  shaky  when  he  ad 
dressed  her. 

"Now  you're  better,  old  dear.    More  rested,  aren't  you  ?" 

She  held  him  at  arm's  length,  her  palms  flat  against  his 
breast.  In  the  darkness  she  felt  the  pleading  in  his  eyes. 
"Oh,  Ocky,  you'll  do  it  this  time,  won't  you?" 

"Do  what,  Duchess?" 

"Don't  call  me  Duchess ;  just  for  once  be  serious." 

"I  am  serious,  darling.    What  is  it?" 

"D'you  remember  years  ago,  when  you  asked  me  to  marry 
you?  D'you  remember  what  you  said?" 

"Might,  if  you  told  me.  .Was  I  more  than  ordinarily 
foolish?" 

"You  said,  'I  need  your  strength.  With  you  I  could  be  a 
man.' " 

"I'd  clean  forgotten.     Funny  way  of  proposin' — eh?" 

"It  wasn't  funny.  That  was  just  what  you  needed — a 
woman's  strength.  I've  tried  so  hard.  But  I've  sometimes 
thought— 

"Go  on,  old  lady." 

"I've  sometimes  thought  we  never  ought  to  have  mar 
ried." 

"Don't  say  that.  Don't  you  find  me  good  enough  ?  Come 
Jehane,  I've  not  been  a  bad  sort,  now  have  I?" 

"I'm  accusing  myself.  I've  tried  to  help  you  in  wrong 
ways.  I've  been  angry  and  sharp  and  nervous.  You've 
come  home  and  attempted  to  kiss  me,  and  I've  driven  you 
out  with  my  temper.  And  I  don't  want  to  do  it  any  more, 
and  yet — 

"You're  upset." 

"No,  I'm  not.  I'm  speaking  the  truth.  I've  been  a  bad 
wife  and  I  had  to  tell  you." 

"  'Pon  my  word,  can't  see  how  you  make  that  out.  You've 


86  THE    RAFT 

given  me  your  money  to  invest  through  Wagstaff,  so  he 
might  think  I  had  capital.  And  you've  given  me  children, 
and " 

"It  isn't  money  that  counts.  It  isn't  even  children.  Heaps 
of  women  whose  husbands  beat  them  bear  them  children. 
It's  that  I  haven't  trusted  you  sufficiently.  I  haven't  loved 
you." 

"I've  not  complained,  so  I  don't  see But  what's  put 

all  this  into  your  head  ?" 

"D'you  want  to  know?  Seeing  Billy  and  Nan  together. 
They're  so  different — you  can  feel  it.  They're  really  mar 
ried,  while  we — we  just  live  together." 

Her  voice  broke.  He  put  his  arms  about  her,  but  even 
then  she  withdrew  herself  from  him. 

"Just  live  together !  And  isn't  that  marriage  ?  Whether 
you're  cross  or  kind  to  me,  Jehane,  I'd  rather  just  live  with 
you  than  be  married  to  any  other  woman." 

"That's  the  worst  of  it — I  know  you  would.  And  I  nag 
at  you  and  I  shall  go  on  doing  it.  I  feel  I  shall — and  I  do 
so  want  to  do  better." 

"Won't  money  make  a  difference?  That's  what's  the 
matter  with  us,  Jehane;  we've  not  had  money." 

She  placed  her  arms  about  his  neck.  "And  that's  what 
I  started  to  say,  Ocky.  You'll  do  it  this  time,  won't  you  ?" 

"Make  money?  Rather.  I  should  think  so.  Was  talk 
ing  to  Playfair  only  this  morning  and  he But  look 

here,  what  makes  you  ask  that  ?  You'll  take  all  the  stuffing 
out  of  me  if  you  begin  to  doubt.  Who's  been  saying  any 
thing?" 

"It  isn't  what  they  said." 

He  lit  his  pipe  and  crossed  over  to  the  window.  In  the 
darkness  his  outlined  figure  looked  strangely  round-shoul 
dered  and  ineffectual.  Her  heart  sank  and  her  hope  became 
desperate.  His  voice  reached  her  blustering  and  muffled. 
She  did  wish  he  would  remove  his  pipe  when  he  spoke  to 
her. 

"I  know.  I  know.  Confound  him !  He's  been  throwing 
cold  water  on  my  plans  as  usual.  Wants  to  see  me,  does 


THE    HOME    LIFE    OF   A    FINANCIER        87 

he?  Well,  if  he  wants  badly  enough  to  cross  London, 
Ocky  Waffles  is  his  man.  I  shan't  go  to  him.  That's  cer 
tain." 

Jehane  strove  to  believe  that  his  opposition  to  Barring- 
ton  was  a  token  of  new  strength. 

Four  days  later  a  note  arrived.  She  was  tempted  to  open 
it,  but  it  was  addressed  to  her  husband.  Directly  he  came 
in  she  placed  it  in  his  hands. 

"Read  it  aloud.    What  does  he  say?" 

She  watched  Ocky's  face  and  saw  how  it  faltered ;  then 
he  hid  the  expression  behind  a  mask  of  cynicism. 

"If  you  won't  read  it  to  me,  let  me  read  it  myself." 

He  crumpled  it  into  his  pocket  hurriedly,  as  though  he 
feared  that  she  would  snatch  it  from  him.  When  all  was 
safe,  he  turned  toward  the  mantel-shelf,  hunting  for  a 
match. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?" 

"It  was  addressed  to  me,  wasn't  it?  Harrington  don't 
let  his  wife  read  his  letters,  I'll  bet.  Neither  do  I;  I'm  not 
a  lawyer's  clerk  in  an  office  any  longer — I'm  going  to  be 
a  big  man." 

"But  what  did  he  say?" 

Forced  to  answer,  Ocky  became  reproachful.  "Duchess, 
you're  suspecting  me  again — you  remember  what  you  prom 
ised  the  other  night.  He  says  he  wants  to  see  me — thinks 
there  may  be  something  in  my  plan.  Daresay,  he'll  offer 
to  put  money  into  it.  You  may  bet,  this  little  boy  won't 
let  him.  Of  course  on  the  surface  he  advises  caution." 

"If  that's  all,  why  can't  you  let  me  read  his  letter?" 

"Because  if  I  did,  I'd  be  acting  as  though  you  didn't  trust 
me.  You  could  have  read  it  with  pleasure,  if  you  hadn't 
made  such  a  fuss." 

Jehane  knew  his  weak  obstinacy  of  old  and  gave  up  the 
contest.  "You  won't  see  him,  of  course — unless  he  comes 
to  the  house." 

"Don't  know  about  that." 

"But  you  were  so  emphatic." 


88  THE   RAFT 

"I  can  change  my  mind,  can't  I?  His  letter  puts  a  dif 
ferent  complexion  on  it." 

"But,  Ocky,  Barrington  isn't  two-faced.  He  doesn't  say 
one  thing  to  me  and  another  thing  to  you.  He  may  be  awk 
ward,  but  he  isn't  underhand.  If  he's  in  favor  of  your 
schemes  now,  he  must  have  heard  something  that's  changed 
him." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it.  Very  soon  a  good  many  people 
who've  thought  me  small  beer'll  hear  something." 

"But  you've  not  answered  my  question.  Where  are  you 
going  to  see  him?" 

"Oh,  maybe  at  his  office." 

Whistling,  with  feigned  cheerfulness,  he  strolled  out.  As 
she  watched  him  slouch  down  the  road,  her  fingers  itched 
to  correct  the  angle  of  his  hat. 

That  night  she  searched  his  pockets  and  found  the  letter. 
It  read,  "Mr.  Wagstaff  has  told  me  the  truth.  You  must 
meet  me  at  my  place  of  business  at  tzvelve  to-morrow." 

It  was  capable  of  the  construction  her  husband  had  put 
on  it ;  it  was  capable  of  many  others. 

Feeling  through  the  coat  next  morning,  searching  for  his 
tobacco-pouch,  Ocky  was  shrewd  enough  to  notice  that 
the  letter  was  in  its  envelope.  Such  neatness  was  not  his 
habit.  When  he  came  back  in  the  evening  from  seeing 
Barrington  and  Jehane  enquired  what  he  had  been  doing, 
he  handed  her  the  letter  with  generous  frankness. 

"You  can  read  it  now.  I  wanted  to  be  sure  before  I  told 
you.  I  was  right.  Barrington's  been  talking  to  Wagstaff 
and  has  heard  all  about  it.  Oh  yes,  I  can  tell  you,  he's  a 
very  different  Barrington." 

"How?" 

"He's  discovered  that  Ocky  Waffles  Esquire  is  a  person 
to  be  respected." 

She  scorned  herself  for  her  mean  suspicions.  He  de 
served  an  atonement.  "Ocky,  darling,  I'm  so  glad." 

As  her  arms  went  about  him,  he  patted  her  on  the  back. 
"That's  all  right,  old  Duchess.  You'll  believe  in  me  now 
—eh?" 


THE    HOME    LIFE    OF   A    FINANCIER        89 

She  lifted  her  face  from  his  shoulder.  It  was  tear- 
stained  with  penitence.  "God  knows,  I've  always  tried  to, 
Ocky." 

He  must  go  her  one  better  in  generosity.  Having  de 
ceived  her,  he  could  afford  to  be  magnanimous. 

"You've  succeeded,  old  dear.  You've  given  me  your 
strength  and  made  a  man  of  me.  I'm  your  doing." 


CHAPTER   XII 
THE    'IMAGINATIVE   CHILD 

THE  bettering  of  Mr.  Waffles  marked  the  beginning  of 
that  intimate  and  freakish  association  which  was  to  shape 
the  careers  of  the  children  of  both  families.  Though  their 
relationship  was  distant  and  in  the  case  of  Glory  non-exis 
tent,  they  had  been  taught  to  regard  one  another  as  cousins. 
As  yet  they  had  met  so  occasionally  and  so  briefly  that 
they  had  not  worn  off  the  distrust,  half-shy,  half-hostile, 
which  is  the  common  attitude  of  children  toward  stran 
gers.  From  now  on  they  were  to  enter  increasingly  into 
one  another's  lives. 

Though  Barrington  had  said  that  it  would  be  fun  for 
Kay  and  Peter  to  have  Jehane's  children  to  play  with  in 
the  garden  and  Nan  had  assented,  neither  of  them  had 
undertaken  to  tell  Kay  and  Peter.  They  had  promised 
them  a  surprise — that  was  all.  Truth  to  tell,  they  had  their 
doubts  about  Peter  and  how  he  would  receive  their  infor 
mation  ;  his  jealous  air  of  proprietorship  regarding  his  little 
sister  gave  them  moments  of  puzzled  uneasiness. 

Years  ago,  before  Kay  was  born,  the  doctor  had  told 
them,  "He's  an  imaginative  child.  Oh  dear  no,  he's  quite 
well.  He'll  grow  out  of  it."  But  he  hadn't.  He  stood  by 
her  always,  as  if  he  were  a  wall  between  her  and  some 
threatened  danger.  He  was  not  happy  away  from  her;  his 
life  seemed  locked  up  in  her  life.  His  tenderness  for  her 
was  beyond  his  years — beautiful  and  mysterious.  In  the 
midst  of  his  play  he  would  still  raise  his  head  suddenly, 
listening  and  expectant. 

He  was  odd  and  gentle  in  many  ways ;  to  his  mother  his 
oddness  was  both  frightening  and  endearing.  Cookie  shook 

90 


THE    'IMAGINATIVE    CHILD  91 

her  head  over  him  and  sighed,  "  'E's  far  away  from  this 
old  world  h'already.  I  doubt  'e'll  never  grow  up  to  man- 
•ood." 

And  Grace  would  reply  sharply,  "Wot  rot !"  But  she 
would  wipe  her  eye. 

He  had  a  habit  of  asking  questions  before  guests  with 
startling  directness — asking  them  with  big  innocent  eyes; 
they  were  questions  for  which  his  mother  felt  bound  to 
apologize :  "He's  so  imaginative ;  for  many  years  he  was 
our  only  child." 

Peter,  wondering  wherein  he  had  done  wrong,  would 
sidle  up  to  her  when  the  guests  were  gone,  inquiring, 
"Mummy,  what  is  a  'maginative  child?" 

His  father,  when  he  heard  him,  would  laugh :  "Now, 
Peter,  don't  be  Peterish  or  you'll  make  us  all  cry." 

So  they  did  not  tell  him  when  his  cousins  were  expected. 

He  was  in  the  garden,  on  the  grass  beneath  the  cedar, 
with  Kay  curled  against  him.  He  was  telling  her  stories — 
his  own  inventions.  On  the  wall,  partly  hidden  in  creepers, 
basking  in  the  sunshine,  blinking  down  on  them  through 
slits  of  eyes,  was  a  great  gray  tabby.  The  tabby  was  the 
subject  of  the  story.  One  day,  returning  along  the  Terrace 
he  had  found  her.  Her  bones  were  poking  through  her 
fur:  she  was  evidently  a  stray.  He  had  stopped  to  stroke 
her  and  she  had  followed.  After  being  fed  on  the  door 
step,  she  refused  to  set  off  on  her  wanderings  again.  When 
ever  the  door  opened,  she  entered  like  a  streak  of  light 
ning.  She  was  determined  to  be  adopted ;  though  cook  had 
broomed  her  on  to  the  pavement  many  times,  she  was  not 
to  be  dissuaded  by  any  harshness  of  refusal.  It  was  almost 
as  though  she  knew  that  Kay  and  Peter  were  her  eager 
advocates. 

With  a  cat  so  determined  there  was  only  one  thing  to  do ; 
take  her  out  and  lose  her.  So  she  was  captured  by  feigned 
kindness  and  tied  in  a  fish-basket ;  Grace  was  given  a  shil 
ling  and  the  fish-basket  with  instructions  to  go  on  a  trip  to 
Hampstead  and  to  leave  the  fish-basket  behind.  Now, 
whether  it  was  that  Grace  was  more  kind-hearted  than  her 


92  THE    RAFT 

statements,  or  whether  it  was  that  she  preferred  the  com 
pany  of  her  policeman  to  the  fulfilling  of  her  errand,  the 
fact  remains  that  the  cat  got  back  before  her.  An  incredible 
performance  if  the  basket  had  really  been  left  at  Hamp- 
stead !  Grace  was  circumstantial  in  the  account  she  gave ; 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  accept  her  word  that  a  cat 
had  traveled  more  swiftly  than  a  train. 

Stern  methods  were  employed.  Doors  were  closed 
against  the  cat;  things  were  thrown  at  it.  It  was  encour 
aged  to  go  hungry.  The  children  were  forbidden  to  call  it. 

One  morning  Peter  jumped  out  of  bed  and  ran  to  the 
window  attracted  by  a  strange  noise.  Looking  down  into 
the  garden,  he  saw  a  flurry  of  fur  careering  across  flower 
beds  till  it  was  brought  up  sharply  against  the  wall  with  a 
bang.  The  bang  was  caused  by  a  salmon-tin,  in  which  the 
cat  had  got  its  head  fastened  while  foraging  in  a  garbage- 
pail.  Before  he  could  go  to  its  rescue,  cook  came  out  with 
her  hostile  broom  and  commenced  the  chase.  The  cat, 
blinded  and  maddened,  by  a  miracle  of  agility  climbed  a 
tree,  leapt  into  a  neighboring  garden  and  vanished. 

A  week  later  it  returned,  with  a  ring  about  its  neck 
where  the  jagged  edges  of  the  tin  had  torn  it.  Such  per 
sistence  and  loyalty  of  affection  were  not  to  be  thwarted. 
At  first  the  animal  was  tolerated ;  then,  as  its  manners  and 
appearance  improved,  it  was  taken  into  the  family.  Be 
cause  of  its  adventures,  when  a  name  had  to  be  chosen, 
Peter's  father  suggested  Romance.  When  Romance  gave 
birth  to  kittens,  they  were  named  after  various  of  the  nov 
elists. 

The  history  of  Romance,  where  she  went  and  what  she 
did,  was  a  story  which  Kay  was  never  tired  of  hearing,  nor 
Peter  of  telling.  Blinking  down  from  the  wall  on  this  sun 
shiny  morning,  Romance  listened  with  contented  pride  to 
the  children,  much  as  an  old  soldier  might  whose  com- 
paigning  days  were  ended. 

"And  what  did  putty  say  when  Gwacie  twied  to  lost 
her?" 

The  'maginative  child  was  about  to  answer,  when  his 


THE    'IMAGINATIVE    CHILD  93 

mother  came  out  under  the  mulberry :  "Peter.  Kay.  Oh, 
there  you  are !  Here's  your  surprise." 

For  a  day  or  two,  while  the  cousins  were  a  novelty, 
there  was  nothing  but  laughter  and  delight ;  but  when  Peter 
understood  that  their  visit  was  of  undetermined  length,  he 
began  to  regard  their  coming  as  an  intrusion.  Kay  and 
Eustace  were  of  the  same  age  and  naturally  chose  one  an 
other  as  playmates.  Eustace  was  a  fat,  dull  boy,  prone  to 
tears,  with  his  mother's  black  eyes  and  handsome  hair,  and 
his  father's  coaxing  ways.  He  was  only  four,  but  he  had 
it  in  his  power  to  make  Peter,  aged  ten,  wretched ;  for  Kay 
developed  a  will  of  her  own,  and  cared  no  more  for  Peter- 
ish  stories  now  that  she  could  have  Eustace  for  her  slave. 

So  Peter  was  left  to  Riska  and  Glory.  His  old  games 
for  two  were  useless;  he  had  to  think  up  fresh  inventions 
in  which  three  might  partake.  He  had  no  heart  for  it; 
Grace  came  to  the  rescue  with  pious  hints  from  the  Bible. 

In  the  stable  by  a  disused  tank,  they  would  enact  Jacob's 
wooing  of  Rachel;  the  tank  was  the  well  at  which  Jacob 
met  her  and  Romance  was  the  sheep  brought  down  to  be 
watered — she  was,  when  they  could  catch  her.  But  the 
game  nearly  always  ended  in  flushed  cheeks  and  protesting 
voices.  Riska  would  insist  on  being  Rachel,  leaving  Glory 
the  undesired  part  of  Leah,  who  was  sore  of  eye.  Of  his 
two  girl-cousins  Peter  preferred  Glory ;  Riska  was  too  high- 
tempered  and  stormy.  So,  when  he  had  served  for  Rachel 
seven  years  and  instead  had  won  Leah,  he  not  infrequently 
was  content  to  stop,  setting  Bible  history  at  defiance. 

One  evening  his  father,  walking  beneath  the  pear-trees, 
heard  voices  in  the  empty  stable.  "I  won't.  I  won't,"  in 
stubborn  tones.  "But  you  shall,  you  shall,"  in  a  passionate 
wail. 

He  opened  the  door  in  the  wall  quietly.  Glory  was  sitting 
on  the  ground,  placid  eyed,  watching  a  hot-faced  little  boy 
who  held  off  a  small  girl-cousin,  fiercely  determined  to  em 
brace  him.  When  matters  had  been  sullenly  explained, 
Barrington  drew  his  son  to  him:  "If  a  lady  asks  you  to 


94  THE    RAFT 

kiss  her,  you  should  do  it.  It's  Peterish  not  to.  But  polyg 
amy  always  ends  in  a  cry.  It's  better  not  to  play  at  it." 

Then  came  the  inevitable  question :  "What  is  polgigamy, 
father?" 

Grace  was  asked  for  a  fresh  suggestion ;  the  result  was 
Samson  and  Delilah.  To  Peter's  way  of  thinking  Riska 
was  quite  suited  to  the  role  of  Delilah.  Too  well  suited ! 
In  revenge,  before  he  could  stop  her,  she  cut  off  Peter's 
hair  at  the  game's  first  playing. 

During  her  stay  at  Topbury  she  committed  many  such 
offences.  She  was  a  lawless  little  creature,  strong  of  char 
acter,  a  wilful  wisp  of  a  child,  and  extraordinarily  like 
Jehane.  Her  fragile  eager  face,  with  its  coral  mouth  and 
soft  dark  eyes,  could  change  from  demure  prettiness  to  a 
flame  of  anger  the  moment  she  was  thwarted.  Yet,  smiling 
or  stormy,  her  small-boned  body  and  long  black  curls  made 
her  always  beautiful — a  wild  and  destructive  kind  of  beauty. 
From  the  first  she  claimed  Peter  as  her  sole  possession,  and 
Peter Well,  Peter  did  his  best  politely  to  avoid  her. 

Glory  was  his  favorite,  though  he  often  seemed  to 
ignore  her.  She  was  the  opposite  to  her  half-sister  in  both 
appearance  and  temper.  She  had  nothing  of  Jehane  in 
her;  nor  did  she  resemble  her  soldier  father.  She  was 
oddly  like  to  Kay  and  to  a  man  whom  her  mother  had  de 
sired  with  all  her  heart.  It  was  strange. 

She  was  gray-eyed  and  her  hair  was  of  a  primrose  shade. 
She  was  tall  for  her  age — taller  than  Peter — and  carried 
herself  with  sweet  and  subdued  quietness.  She  said  very 
little  and  had  submissive  ways.  Her  actions  spoke  loudly 
for  anyone  she  loved.  They  spoke  loudly  for  Peter;  but  he 
scarcely  observed  them.  His  eyes  were  all  for  Kay.  Glory 
was  like  his  shadow  stealing  after  him  across  the  sunlight 
through  that  month  of  June.  Her  hand  was  always  slipping 
shyly  into  his  from  behind.  And  she  understood  his  love 
for  his  sister,  accepting  it  without  question. 

She  would  go  to  her  small  half-brother,  "Come  along 
Eustace;  Glory  wants  to  show  you  something." 

"But  Eustace  wanth  to  play  wiv  Kay." 


THE    'IMAGINATIVE   CHILD  95 

"Eustace  can  play  with  Kay  directly.  Just  come  with 
Glory,  there's  a  dear  little  boy." 

She  would  nod  to  Peter  knowingly,  and  smile  to  him, 
leading  Eustace  away  and  leaving  him  alone  with  Kay. 

He  could  fill  her  eyes  with  tears  at  the  least  show  of 
irritation ;  her  persistent  following  did  irritate  him  some 
times.  Once,  cross  because  she  followed,  he  told  her  to  sit 
on  the  stable  wall  and  not  to  move  till  he  said  she  might. 
Tea-time  came  and  there  was  no  Glory.  They  searched  the 
house  for  her  and  went  out  into  the  garden,  calling.  Not 
till  Peter  called  did  she  answer;  then  he  remembered  why. 
He  remembered  years  after  the  forlornness  of  that  tear- 
stained  face.  It  was  Peterish  of  him  to  forget  Glory,  and 
to  remember  her  almost  too  late. 

Nan,  sitting  sewing  in  the  quiet  sunlight,  would  often 
drop  her  work  to  watch  the  children.  She  noticed  how  they 
kept  together,  yet  always  a  little  separate,  acting  out  the 
clash  of  temperaments  which  they  had  inherited  from  their 
parents.  And  she  noticed  increasingly  something  else — 
something  which  she  never  mentioned  and  which  explained 
Jehane  to  her :  that  astonishing  likeness  of  Glory  to  Kay, 
as  though  they  had  been  sisters. 

She  would  call  Glory  to  her  and,  as  the  child  sat  at  her 
feet,  would  say,  "Do  you  like  Peter,  darling?" 

The  honest  eyes  would  be  lifted  to  her  own  in  affirma 
tion. 

"Very  much  ?" 

"Very  much,  Auntie." 

The  girlish  hand  would  slip  into  her  own  and  presently  a 
faltering  voice  would  whisper,  "But  he  doesn't  like  me  al 
ways.  I  worry  him  sometimes." 

Nan  would  call  to  Peter,  "Glory's  tired  of  sitting  with 
mother.  She  wants  her  little  tyrant." 

As  they  wandered  away  across  the  lawn,  she  would  fol 
low  them  with  her  eyes. 

"I  hope  Jehane's  good  to  her,"  she  said  to  Barrington. 

"Seems  to  be,  in  her  jealous  way." 

"She's  a  nice  child." 


96  THE   RAFT 

"Nicer  than  Riska  or  Eustace.  That's  thanks  to  Captain 
Spashett." 

"Ah,  yes,"  Nan  would  say. 

Mr.  Waffles,  having  moved  his  belongings  to  Sandport, 
came  to  fetch  the  intruders.  Peter  watched  them  depart 
with  a  sense  of  relief;  now  things  would  settle  back  into 
their  old  groove. 

In  July  the  house  at  Topbury  was  closed  and  the  Bar- 
ringtons  went  for  their  holiday  to  North  Wales.  The 
servants  were  sent  to  their  homes,  with  the  exception  of 
Grace.  Summer  holidays  were  ecstatic  times  of  fishing- 
rods  and  old  clothes,  when  parents  put  aside  their  busy 
manners,  broke  rules  and  played  truant.  This  particular 
holiday  was  made  additionally  adventurous  by  a  tandem 
tricycle,  on  which  Peter  was  allowed  to  accompany  his 
father  when  his  mother  was  too  tired,  trying  to  catch  the 
pedals  with  his  short  legs  or  riding  on  the  pedals  away  from 
the  saddle,  when  his  father  was  not  looking. 

He  was  his  father's  companion  many  hours  of  each  day, 
for  Nan  was  often  tired.  His  father  had  plentiful  oppor 
tunities  for  judging  just  how  'maginative  was  his  child. 

One  morning,  on  going  down  to  bathe,  the  sea  was  rough 
and  Peter,  reluctant  to  enter  and  still  more  reluctant  to  own 
it,  made  the  excuse  that  he  was  frightened  of  treading  on 
a  dead  sailor. 

Peter,  after  hearing  a  sermon  at  the  village  chapel,  grew 
profoundly  sorry  for  the  Devil.  It  seemed  so  dreadful  to 
have  to  burn  for  ever  and  ever.  He  made  a  secret  promise 
to  God  that  he  would  take  the  Devil's  place.  Then  he 
thought  it  over  for  some  days  in  horror;  he  had  been  too 
generous — he  wanted  to  go  back  on  his  bargain.  His 
mother  found  him  crying  one  night ;  she  suspected  that  he 
had  been  sleeping  little  by  the  dark  blue  rings  under  his 
eyes.  She  coaxed  him,  and  he  told  her. 

Another  sign  of  his  'maginativeness  was  his  anxiety  to 
know  whether  cows  had  souls. 

"That  boy  thinks  too  much,"  said  his  father;  "he  needs 


THE    'MAGINATIVE    CHILD  97 

to  rough  and  tumble  with  other  boys  of  his  own  age.  At 
ten  his  worst  trouble  should  be  tummy-ache." 

Nan  smiled.    "But  Peter's  different,  you  know." 

"I  know.  But,  if  he's  to  grow  up  strong,  he  must  change. 
Little  woman,  I  don't  like  it." 

"Billy  boy,  I  sometimes  think  it's  our  doing,  yours  and 
mine.  When  we  put  toys  in  the  empty  nursery  before  he 
was  born,  before  he  was  thought  of,  we  were  making  him 
a  'maginative  child." 

"The  sins  of  the  parents,  eh?" 

"Not  that.  The  love  of  the  parents  shall  be  visited  upon 
the  children  unto  the  third  and " 

"Pepperminta,  you  know  more  about  God  and  Peter  and 
love  than  I  do.  You're  right,  and  you're  always  right.  How 
is  it  that  you  learn  so  much  by  sitting  so  quiet?" 

Matters  came  to  a  head  through  Kay.  In  the  cottage 
where  they  stayed,  Peter  slept  with  her  in  the  same  bed,  in 
a  narrow  room  beneath  a  sloping  roof.  She  was  nervous 
to  be  left  alone  there — it  was  so  dark,  so  far  away,  so 
strange;  Peter,  a  willing  martyr,  went  to  bed  with  her  at 
the  same  time.  Lying  awake  in  the  dark  or  twilight,  he 
would  tell  her  stories. 

"Listening,  Kay?" 

"Yeth,"  in  a  little  drowsy  voice. 

As  she  grew  more  sleepy  she  would  snuggle  closer  with 
her  lips  against  his  face,  till  at  last  he  knew  by  her  regular 
breathing  that  his  audience  was  indifferent  to  his  wildest 
fancies. 

One  evening  his  parents  returned  from  a  ride  and,  enter 
ing  the  house,  heard  a  stifled  sobbing. 

"What's  that?" 

"Must  be  the  children." 

"You  wait  here,  Nan.    I'll  go  up  and  quiet  them." 

"No,  I'll  come,  up  too." 

As  they  climbed  the  stairs  and  reached  the  landing,  they 
made  out  words  which  were  in  the  wailing :  "I  don't  want 
to  be  a  dead  'un.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  dead  'un." 


98  THE    RAFT 

It  was  Kay's  voice.  Peter,  leaning  over  her,  was  whis 
pering  frightened  comfort. 

When  Nan  and  Billy  had  taken  them  in  their  arms  and 
lit  the  candle,  the  tragedy  was  explained.  Peter  had  been 
enlarging  on  the  magnificence  of  heaven  and  the  beauties 
of  the  future  life.  Things  went  well  until  Kay  realized 
that  there  was  no  direct  communication  by  trains  or  buses 
between  heaven  and  her  parents.  She  didn't  want  to  go 
there.  Its  magnificence,  unshared  by  anyone  she  loved,  was 
terrifying.  She  didn't  want  to  be  a  dead  'un.  She  kept 
repeating  it  in  spite  of  Peter's  best  efforts  at  consolation. 

It  was  some  time  before  it  was  safe  to  blow  the  candle 
out  and  leave  them.  Death  was  very  imminent  in  their 
minds. 

Downstairs,  when  it  was  all  over,  Billy  looked  across  at 
Nan,  his  brow  puckered  with  annoyance  and  his  lips  twitch 
ing  with  laughter.  "That  decides  it." 

"Decides !    How  ?    What  does  it  decide  ?" 

"Something  that  I've  thought  of  for  a  long  time.  Peter's 
too  imaginative.  He's  not  a  good  companion  for  Kay." 

"How  can  you  say  that?  We  all  know  how  gentle  he  is 
with  her." 

"That's  just  it.  It's  good  for  neither  of  them.  Now 
that  Jehane  and  Ocky  are  at  Sandport  it  makes  things 
easier;  they  can  keep  an  eye  on  him." 

"An  eye  on  Peter !" 

Billy  leant  across  the  table,  turning  down  the  lamp  and 
turning  it  up  again.  He  was  gaining  time.  "It's  for  his 
own  good.  You  don't  suppose  I  like  it.  It'll  be  hard  for 
all  of  us."  He  spoke  huskily. 

Nan  plucked  at  the  table-cloth.  She  was  almost  angry. 
"You  mean  that  you  want  to  send  him  to  school  at  Sand- 
port — send  my  little  Peterkins  away?" 

"Sandport's  famous  for  its  schools." 

"But  Billy,  you  couldn't  be  so  cruel.  He's  so  young  and 
sensitive.  His  heart  would  break." 

"Rubbish.  I  was  sent  to  boarding-school  when  I  was 
eight.  I've  survived." 


THE    'MAGINATIVE    CHILD  99 

"You!     You  were  different — but  Peter!" 

She  voiced  the  common  fallacy  of  mothers,  that  their 
husbands  as  boys  were  of  coarser  fibre  than  their  children. 
She  bowed  her  head  on  her  arms  beneath  the  lamp  and 
cried.  Her  little  Peter  to  be  thrust  out  and  made  lonely, 
simply  because  he  had  too  much  imagination !  It  was 
cruel ! 


CHAPTER    XIII 
PRICKCAUTIONS 

THERE  was  no  withstanding  his  questions.  Peter  had  to 
be  told  why :  it  was  because  he  was  too  Peterish.  He  was 
going  for  the  good  of  Kay.  All  these  years  in  trying  so 
hard  to  love  her,  he  had  been  harming  her — it  amounted  to 
that  as  he  understood  it.  He  was  being  sent  to  school  that 
he  might  learn  to  be  like  other  children — like  Riska  and 
Eustace,  for  instance. 

"When  I'm  quite  like  them,  can  I  come  home?" 

Ah,  that  was  in  the  future. 

Unknowingly  he  had  committed  an  indiscretion,  the  pen 
alty  for  which  was  exile — the  indiscretion  was  called  "  'mag- 
ination."  He  felt  horribly  ashamed,  even  though  Grace  did 
assure  him  that  some  of  the  very  greatest  people  had  been 
guilty  of  the  same  mistake. 

"Why,  Master  Peter,  you're  gettin'  orf  lightly,  that  you 
are.  There  was  once  a  young  fellah  as  dreamed  dreams 
about  sheaves  bowin'  down  to  'im,  and  the  moon  and  stars 
makin'  a  basin  for  'im.  D'yer  know  wot  'appened  ?" 

"I  think  that's  silly,"  said  Peter.  "How  could  the  moon 
and  stars  make  a  basin?" 

"  'Tain't  silly  neither,  'cause  it  says  it  in  the  Bible.  Any- 
'ow,  when  'e  told  'is  dreams  d'yer  know  wot  'appened?  Ts 
h'eleven  brethren,  they  chucked  'im  in  a  pit — yes,  they  did. 
And  there  'e'd  'ave  stayed  for  keeps  if  it  'adn't  been  for  a 
passin'  circus  as  saw  'e  was  queer  and  put  'im  in  their  show, 
and  took  'im  away  into  Egypt.  Oh  my,  for  a  boy  wiv 
'magination,  you're  gettin'  orf  light." 

"What  did  he  do  in  the  circus?  Did  he  ever  come  home 
again  ?" 


PRICKCAUTIONS  101 

"  'E  grew  to  be  a  ruler  in  h'Egypt  and  saved  'is  pa  and 
ma  and  eleven  brethren,  when  they  wuz  starvin'." 

"P'raps  I'll  do  that  for  all  of  you  one  day." 

"Yer  silly  little  monkey !  There  yer  go  again  wiv  yer 
queer  sayin's." 

Peter  had  been  to  the  Agricultural  Hall  in  Islington  and 
had  seen  people  in  side-shows  without  arms  and  legs : 
bearded  women ;  elastic-skinned  men ;  horrid  persons  with 
one  body  and  two  heads  or  with  a  little  twin,  without  even 
one  head,  growing  out  of  their  chests  and  waggling  their 
pitiful  legs.  He  wasn't  like  that  in  his  body;  but  he  sup 
posed  he  must  be  something  like  it  inside  his  head.  The 
belief  that  he  was  somehow  deformed  made  him  too  hum 
ble,  too  abashed  to  protest;  anything  that  was  for  his  little 
sister's  sake  must  be  right.  But  he  wished  that  someone 
had  warned  him  earlier ;  only  in  this  did  he  feel  himself 
betrayed. — Anyhow,  never  in  his  wildest  fancies  had  he 
supposed  that  the  moon  and  stars  could  make  basins — and 
that  boy  Joseph  had  turned  out  all  right.  Now  he  was 
going  to  his  particular  Egypt  to  get  cured. 

Taking  him  on  his  knee,  his  father  had  explained  mat 
ters.  He  was  to  be  a  little  knight  and  not  to  cry.  He  was 
to  ride  out  into  the  world  alone  for  the  good  of  the  lady  he 
loved  best.  One  day  he  would  return  to  her,  and  then . 

With  his  mother  it  was  different ;  she  wept  and  quite  evi 
dently  expected  him  to  weep  too.  She  didn't  want  him  to 
go.  It  was  not  her  doing.  She  loved  him  to  be  Peterish ; 
she  would  not  have  him  otherwise.  To  her  he  could  con 
fess. 

"It's  here,  mother,"' tapping  his  breast;  "I  can't  help  it 
really.  But  I'll  try." 

"No,  he  couldn't  help  it — that  was  the  worst  of  it — any 
more  than  he  could  help  hearing  the  whistling  angel.  He 
could  pretend  that  he  wasn't  Peter,  just  as  he  had  pre 
tended  not  to  hear  the  angel  whistle.  But  he  would  not  be 
able  to  change;  he  could  only  learn  to  wear  a  disguise.  If 
school  could  teach  him  to  do  that,  years  hence  he  might 
prove  worthy  to  live  again  at  Topbury.  Because  he  felt 


102  THE   RAFT 

that  he  was  to  blame,  he  strove  to  be  very  brave;  if  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears  sometimes,  it  wasn't  because  he  wanted 
them  to. 

The  respite  shortened.  Letters  passed  to  and  fro  be 
tween  his  father  and  Uncle  Waffles,  between  his  mother  and 
Aunt  Jehane.  Their  contents,  discussed  at  the  breakfast 
table,  cast  a  gloom  over  all  the  day.  Many  schools  were 
offered,  but  the  best  for  Peter's  particular  case  was  one 
kept  by  Miss  Lydia  Rufus.  Aunt  Jehane  would  look  after 
his  clothes,  and  he  could  spend  his  Saturdays  at  Madeira 
Lodge. 

Madeira  Lodge !  That  was  the  house  at  Sandport  which 
sheltered  Uncle  Waffles.  It  was  stamped  in  red  letters  at 
the  top  of  his  note-paper  and  proclaimed  magnificence.  It 
rather  tickled  Peter's  father's  sense  of  humor. 

"Anything  from  Madeira  Lodge  'smorning?"  he  would 
say,  with  a  twinkle,  as  he  sorted  out  the  letters.  "But  why 
stop  half-way  in  intemperance?  Why  not  Port  Wine  Ter 
race,  Moselle  Park,  in  the  town  of  Champagne?  Ocky's 
too  modest." 

Or  he  would  say,  "Lord  Sauterne  of  Beer  Castle  informs 
his  nephew  that  Miss  Rufus's  pupils  require  a  Bible,  an 
Eton  suit  and  two  pairs  of  house-shoes." 

Peter  would  greet  his  father's  jokes  with  a  strained  but 
gallant  little  smile.  "We  men  must  keep  up  the  women's 
courage,"  his  father  had  told  him. 

It  was  hard  to  keep  up  other  people's  courage  when  your 
own  was  down  to  zero. 

By  the  time  they  left  the  cottage  in  North  Wales  every 
thing  had  been  arranged.  There  was  just  one  short  fort 
night  left  in  which  to  get  Peter's  wardrobe  together,  mark 
his  linen  and  finish  off  his  mending  and  sewing.  The  morn 
ings  were  spent  in  visits  to  shops,  where  boots  and  gloves 
and  suits  were  fitted  on  and  purchased.  A  knight  when  he 
rides  into  the  world  alone  must  set  out  duly  caparisoned. 

And  Peter  was  thankful  for  the  rush  and  muddle;  he 
found  it  increasingly  difficult  not  to  cry,  especially  when 
his  mother  strained  him  to  her  breast  and  gazed  down  on 


PRICKCAUTIONS  103 

him  lovingly  with  her  dear  wet  eyes.  He  was  glad  that 
people  should  have  so  much  to  do,  for  he  hardly  knew  how 
to  conduct  himself  since  the  discovery  of  his  awful  blemish. 
He  was  afraid  to  show  his  affection  for  his  little  sister  in 
the  old  fond  ways,  and  he  could  think  of  no  new  ways  of 
showing  it. 

He  had  come  to  the  last  day.  It  was  one  of  those  days 
when  summer  droops  her  eyes  and  confesses  that  she  has 
grown  old.  There  was  just  a  hint  of  tears  in  the  sky — a 
blue  film  of  vapor  which  softened  the  valiant  smiling  of 
grass  and  leaves  decaying.  In  the  garden  the  last  of  the 
roses  were  falling  and  Virginia  creeper  lay  like  crusted 
blood  upon  the  walls.  It  was  as  though  summer,  like  a. 
spendthrift  woman,  put  red  upon  her  cheeks  to  pretend  she 
was  not  dying.  Peter,  in  his  sensitive  way,  was  conscious, 
of  the  sadness  of  this  vain  pretending,  this  mimicking  a 
beauty  that  was  gone.  He  was  doing  the  same :  preparing 
for  to-morrow  and  at  the  same  time  trying  to  persuade 
himself  that  the  present  was  forever — that  to-morrow  would 
never  dawn. 

He  ran  up  and  down  the  house  trying  to  seem  merry  and 
excited,  watching  his  boxes  being  corded,  laughing  and 
chattering — talking  cf  when  he  would  return  for  Christ 
mas.  "We  men  must  keep  up  the  women's  courage" — one 
of  the  women  was  Kay.  He  was  doing  his  best  to  be  a 
little  knight ;  it  hurt  sometimes,  especially  when  his  mother 
looked  up  from  fitting  socks  and  shoes  into  odd  corners  of 
his  boxes,  unhappy  and  surprised..  She  must  think  him 
hard-hearted;  she  should  never  guess. 

After  lunch,  having  watched  his  opportunity,  he  slipped 
out  of  the  house  without  letting  anyone  know  where  he  was 
going.  His  face  was  set  in  a  solemn  expression  of  serious 
determination.  He  scuttled  down  the  Terrace  and  down 
the  Crescent,  till  he  came  within  sight  of  the  cab-stand ; 
he  was  relieved  to  find  that  Mr.  Grace,  as  he  called  Grace's 
father,  was  disengaged.  Mr.  Grace  was  a  fat,  red-faced 
man,  and  like  many  fat  and  red-faced  men  had  his  griev 
ance.  His  appearance  was  against  him.  People  judged 


104  THE    RAFT 

him  circumstantially  and  said  that  he  drank.  Even  Grace 
said  it.  His  stand  was  suspiciously  near  Topbury  Cock. 
But  most  cab-stands  are  near  to  some  public  house.  Peter 
had  become  his  very  dear  friend  and  to  him  Mr.  Grace  had 
opened  his  heart,  denying  all  charges  and  imputing  the 
redness  of  his  countenance  to  the  severity  of  his  calling  and 
exposure  to  the  weather. 

Mr.  Grace  was  asleep  on  his  box,  his  face  stuffed  deep 
in  his  collar,  the  reins  sagging  from  his  swollen  hands  as  if 
at  any  minute  he  might  drive  off.  When  Peter  spoke  to 
him,  he  jumped  himself  together.  "Keb,  sir.  Right  y'are, 

sir.  HTm  ready Well,  I'm  blessed !  Strike  me  blind, 

if  it  ain't  the  little  master." 

Peter  spread  apart  his  legs,  thrusting  his  hands  deep  in 
his  knickerbocker  pockets.  "I'm  going  to  be  sent  away,  Mr. 
Grace,  and  I'm  worried." 

Mr.  Grace  twisted  his  head,  as  if  trying  to  lengthen  his 
fat  neck;  finding  that  impossible,  he  shifted  his  ponderous 
body  nearer  to  the  edge  of  the  seat  and  regarded  Peter  with 
his  kind  little  pig's  eyes. 

"Worried,  Mr.  Peter?     Well,  I  never!" 

"I'm  worried  for  Kay — I  shan't  be  here  to  take  care  of 
her."  His  voice  fluttered,  then  steadied  itself  as  he  lifted 
up  his  head  and  finished  bravely. 

"We'll  do  that,  Master  Peter.  You  kin  rely  on  an  old 
friend." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Grace ;  that  was  what  I  was  going  to 
ask  you.  If  anyone  was  to  run  away  with  her,  they'd  come 
to  you  to  drive  them.  Wouldn't  they  ?" 

"Not  a  shadder  of  a  doubt.  I  drives  all  the  best  people 
in  Topbury." 

"These  wouldn't  be  'zactly  the  best  people — not  if  they 
were  stealing  Kay." 

"All  the  better ;  the  easier  for  me  to  spot  'em.  Any  par- 
tickler  pusson  you  suspeck  of  'aving  wicked  designs  upon 
'er?" 

"No  one  in  particular,  Mr.  Grace.  I  was  just  frightened 
that  I  might  come  home  and  find  her  gone." 


PRICKCAUTIONS  105 

"What  one  might  call  a  prickcaution  ?" 

"I  think  that's  what  I  meant." 

Mr.  Grace's  neck  had  become  sore  with  looking  down, 
so  he  tempted  Peter  to  come  on  the  box.  Puffing  and  blow 
ing,  he  gave  him  a  hand  to  help  him. 

When  they  were  seated  side  by  side,  Mr.  Grace  looked 
fondly  at  the  curly  head  and  straight  little  body.  "I  shall 
miss  yer." 

"And  I  shall  miss  you.  It's  nice  to  be  missed  by  some 
body." 

"I  shall  miss  yer  'cause  you've  been  my  prickcaution." 

"I?" 

"Yas,  you.  You've  been  my  prickcaution  against  my 
darter,  Grace.  She's  thought  better  o'  me  since  we've  been 
friends.  And  then " 

"I'm  glad  she's  thought  better  of  you.    And  then,  what?5> 

"Well,  you  kep  me  informed  as  to  'er  nights  out,  so  I 
could  h'escape." 

Peter  regarded  his  friend  in  surprise.  "Escape !  But 
she  wouldn't  hurt  you." 

"Not  h'intendin'  to,  Master  Peter;  not  h'intendin'  to. 
It's  me  feelin's  h'l  refer  to.  You  don't  know  darters.  'Ow 
should  yer? — She  thinks  I  drink,  like  all  the  rest  of  'em 
'cept  you.  On  'er  nights  h'out  she  brings  'er  blooming 
Salvaition  Band  to  this  'ere  corner,  h'aimin'  at  my  con- 
wersion.  It's  woundin'  and  'umiliatin',  Master  Peter,  for  a 
pa  as  don't  need  no  conwersion.  She  makes  me  blush  all 
through,  and  that  makes  things  wuss  for  a  man  wi'  a  red 
compleckshon.  So  yer  see,  you  wuz  my  prickcaution." 

"But  you  don't  drink,  Mr.  Grace,  do  you?" 

"No  more  'an  will  wash  me  mouf  out  same  as  a  'orse. 
It's  cruel  'ard  to  be  suspickted  o'  wot  yer  don't  do." 

Peter  looked  miserably  into  the  kind  little  pig's  eyes. 
"I'm  suspected  too.  That's  why  I'm  being  sent  away." 

"O'  wot?" 

"They  call  it  'magination." 

"Ah !" 

"Why  do  you  say  ah  like  that?" 


io6  THE    RAFT 

"  'Cause  it's  wuss'n  drink — much  wusser.  But  take  no 
more'n  will  wash  yer  mouf  out  and  yer'll  be  awright.  That's 

my  principle  in  everythin' Master  Peter,  this  makes 

us  close  friends,  don't  it?  We're  both  misonderstood. 
I " 

Just  then  a  fare  came  up — an  old  lady,  very  full  in  the 
skirt,  with  parcels  dangling  from  her  arms  in  every  direc 
tion. 

"Keb,  keb,  keb.  Oh  yes,  my  'orse  is  wery  safe.  No,  'e 
don't  bite  and  'e  won't  run  away.  Eh?  Oh,  I'm  a  wery 
good  driver.  Eh  ?  Three  to  you,  mum ;  four  bob  to  any 
one  else.  Am  I  kind  to  'im?  I  loves  'im  like  me  own 
darter. — See  yer  ter-morrow,  Master  Peter. — Gee,  up  there. 
Gee  up,  I  tell  yer." 

Peter  sought  out  Grace's  policeman  on  his  beat  and  made 
him  the  same  request  with  respect  to  Kay.  Then  he  saw 
the  Misses  Jacobite  and  warned  them.  Having  done  his 
best  for  her  safety  in  his  absence,  he  hurried  home. 

The  evening  went  all  too  fast — seven,  eight,  nine,  ten. 
Every  hour  the  clock  struck  he  felt  something  between  a 
thrill  and  a  shiver  (a  "shrill"  he  called  it)  run  up  and  down 
his  spine.  "The  end.  The  end.  The  end,"  the  clock 
seemed  to  be  saying  over  and  over,  so  that  he  wanted  to  get 
up  and  shriek  to  stop  it.  Oh,  that  a  little  boy  could  seize 
the  spokes  and  stay  the  wheels  of  time ! 

"Tired,  Peter?    Hadn't  you  better— 

"Oh,  not  yet !    Please,  just  another  five  minutes." 

"The  dustman's  come  to  my  Peterkin's  eyes,"  his  mother 
murmured. 

He  sat  up,  valiantly  trying  to  look  wakeful. 

They  had  not  the  heart  to  cut  short  his  respite — it  was 
such  an  eternity  till  Christmas.  His  head  sank  against  his 
mother's  knees  and  his  eyes  closed  tightly,  tightly. 

"Poor  little  fellow,"  his  father  said. 

"My  darling  little  Peterkins" — that  was  his  mother. 

They  carried  him  up  to  bed.  On  the  half -landing,  out 
side  the  nursery  door,  they  halted,  remembering  how  their 


PRICKCAUTIONS  107 

dreams  had  shaped  his  character  long  before  God  had  made 
his  body. 

Next  morning,  soon  after  breakfast,  Mr.  Grace  drove  up 
to  the  door  as  he  had  promised.  He  drove  all  the  best  peo 
ple  of  Topbury  to  their  battlefields  of  joy  or  sorrow.  He 
was  Topbury's  herald  of  change,  and  had  learnt  to  control 
his  emotions  under  the  most  trying  circumstances.  But 
this  morning,  when  the  straight  little  figure  came  bravely 
down  the  steps,  something  happened  to  Mr.  Grace's  eyes. 

"Good-bye,  darlingest  mother.  Good-bye,  little  kitten 
Kay.  Good-bye.  Good-bye.  Good-bye." 

"Jump  in,  old  man,"  his  father  said. 

The  door  banged. 

"Yer  awright?"  asked  Mr.  Grace. 

"We're  all  right,"  said  Peter's  father. 

"Kum  up."  Mr.  Grace  tugged  savagely  on  the  reins. 
"Kum  up,  carn't  yer?"  He  had  to  vent  his  feelings  some 
way. 

"Dammitall,"  he  growled  as  his  "keb"  crawled  down  the 
Terrace,  "dammitall.  It'll  taik  more  'an  this  fare's  worf  to 
wash  me  mouf  out  this  time.  It's  got  inter  me  froat.  'Ope 
I  ain't  goin'  to  blub.  Dammit!" 


CHAPTER   XIV 
PETER   IN   EGYPT 

Miss  LYDIA  RUFUS  was  a  prim  person.  Judging  from 
her  appearance  one  would  have  said  that  in  her  case  virtue 
was  compulsory  through  lack  of  opportunity.  And  yet 
she  had  had  her  "accident" — that  was  how  she  referred  to 
it  in  conversations  with  her  Maker.  No  one  in  Sandport, 
save  herself  and  God,  knew  about  it.  It  had  happened  ten 
years  before  Peter  became  her  pupil.  The  "accident"  had 
been  born  anonymously,  as  one  might  say,  and  had  been 
brought  up  incognito.  After  the  first  unavoidable  prelimi 
naries  for  which  her  presence  was  indispensable,  she  and 
the  "accident"  had  separated.  She  hardly  ever  dared  to 
see  it,  for  she  was  alone  in  the  world  and  had  her  living 
to  earn — to  do  that  one  must  appear  respectable. 

For  a  woman  of  such  bristling  righteousness  to  have 
been  so  yielding  as  to  have  had  an  "accident"  was  almost 
to  her  credit :  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  tour  de  force,  like 
sword-swallowing,  passing  a  camel  through  the  eye  of  a 
needle  or  any  other  form  of  occult  acrobatics.  It  was  a 
miracle  in  heart-magic.  And  often  in  the  night  her  heart 
went  out  in  longing  for  the  child  whom  she  dared  not  ac 
knowledge.  In  her  soul,  which  most  people  regarded  as  an 
ice-house,  a  sanctuary  was  established  with  an  altar  of 
mother-love,  on  which  the  candles  of  yearning  were  kept 
burning.  This  chapter  in  her  secret  history  would  never 
have  been  mentioned  had  she  not  made  Peter  the  proxy  of 
her  "accident,"  because  he  was  ten  and  because  he  was 
handsome. 

It  was  lucky  for  Peter.  Her  usual  attitude  toward  chil 
dren  was  one  of  condemnation.  She  expiated  her  own  sin 

108 


PETER    IN    EGYPT  109 

by  uprooting  the  old  Adam  from  the  hearts  of  her  pupils. 
In  her  vigor  and  diligence  she  often  uprooted  flowers.  For 
the  rest,  she  was  a  High  Church  woman,  wore  elastic-sided 
boots  and  never  permitted  anything  to  be  placed  on  a  Bible. 
Her  system  of  education  was  one  of  moral  straight-jackets. 

Peter  found  himself  in  a  cramped  new  house,  in  a  raw 
new  street,  on  the  outskirts  of  a  jerry-built  town.  The  wind 
seemed  always  to  be  blowing  and,  in  whichever  direction 
he  walked,  he  always  came  to  sand.  It  was  as  though  this 
place  had  been  planted  in  a  desert  that  escape  might  be 
impossible.  Twenty  other  little  boys,  about  his  own  age, 
were  his  fellow-captives.  When  the  school  was  marched 
out,  walking  two  abreast,  with  Miss  Rufus  sternly  bringing 
up  the  tail  of  the  procession,  he  would  meet  other  crocodiles 
of  boys  and  girls,  sedately  parading,  followed  by  their 
warders.  These  public  promenades  were  a  part  of  the 
school's  advertisement;  deportment  was  strictly  observed. 
Sandport,  as  Peter  knew  it,  was  a  settlement  for  convict- 
children. 

Miss  Rufus  soon  formed  the  habit  of  keeping  him  to 
walk  with  her.  At  first  this  caused  him  embarrassment. 
Little  by  little — how  was  it? — he  became  aware  that  with 
him  she  was  different.  As  the  mood  took  her,  she  spoke  to 
him  sharply,  was  merely  forbidding,  or  was  so  kind  that 
he  forgot  the  sourness  of  her  corrugated  countenance  and 
the  ugly  color  of  her  hair.  It  was  instinctive  with  him  to 
treat  all  women  as  he  did  his  mother,  with  quaint  chivalry 
and  forethought.  An  attitude  of  gallantry  in  a  pupil  was 
something  new  to  Miss  Rufus. 

When  they  came  to  the  miles  of  beach,  all  tawny  like  a 
golden  mantle  spread  out  with  a  thread  of  silver  in  the 
far,  far  distance  where  the  sea  washed  its  hem,  instead  of 
going  to  romp  with  the  other  boys  he  sat  himself  down 
beside  her. 

"Go  and  play,"  she  told  him. 

"But  you'd  be  alone,  mam." 

"I  was  always  alone  before  you  came." 

"But  I'm  here  now." 


no  THE    RAFT 

He  stood  before  her  laughing,  with  his  cap  in  his  hand 
and  the  wind  in  his  hair.  He  showed  no  fear  of  her — that 
was  not  his  way  with  strangers.  She  gazed  in  his  face — 
the  gray  eyes,  the  flushed  cheeks,  the  red  mouth.  This  was 
not  the  sullen  little  slave  of  her  normal  experience.  In 
spite  of  herself,  his  bright  intelligence  and  willingness  to  be 
loved  stirred  something  in  her  breast.  If  she  had  not  cared 
what  people  had  thought  of  her — if  she  had  been  brave, 
her  child  might  have  been  like  that.  Her  chapped,  coarse 
grained  features  grew  wistful.  Peter,  looking  at  her,  saw 
only  a  disagreeable,  faded  woman  with  red  hair. 

"You  don't  like  me,  do  you?" 

"Us'ally  I  like  everyone,"  said  Peter ;  "I  don't  know  you 
yet." 

"I'm  a  cross  old  woman.  If  you  don't  mind  losing  your 
play,  you  can  come  and  sit  beside  me." 

And  Peter  sat  down.  It  was  dull  for  him.  Across  the 
sands  boats  on  wheels  raced  with  spread  sails,  dashing 
toward  the  silver  thread.  Ponies,  which  you  could  hire 
for  a  few  pennies,  were  galloping  up  and  down.  Across 
the  flat  beach,  like  a  monstrous  centipede,  with  trestles  for 
legs,  the  long  pier  crawled  with  its  head  in  the  sea  and  its 
tail  on  land.  And  the  pier  had  its  own  delirious  excite 
ments  :  on  show,  in  the  casino  at  the  end,  was  a  troop  of 
performing  fleas  who  drove  one  another  in  the  tiniest  of 
hansom-cabs.  Peter  knew  because  a  lady-flea,  named  Ethel, 
had  been  lost ;  a  reward  for  her  recovery  was  advertised  all 
over  Sandport.  Ten  shillings  were  offered  and  hundreds 
of  fleas  had  been  submitted  for  inspection.  Peter  had  a 
wild  dream  that  he  might  find  Ethel :  with  ten  shillings  he 
could  escape  to  London  from  this  Egypt  of  exile  in  the 
sand. 

Miss  Rufus  broke  in  on  his  reverie.  She  had  been  won 
dering  how  anyone  who  had  the  right  to  Peter  could  be  so 
foolish  as  to  do  without  him. 

"Why  did  they  send  you?" 

"Send  me  to  you?" 

"Yes." 


PETER    IN    EGYPT  in 

"Because  I  made  Kay  cry  about  heaven." 

"Humph !  D'you  know  what  it  says  about  heaven  in  the 
Bible  ? — that  there's  no  marriage.  Was  that  what  she  cried 
about?" 

"Kay  wouldn't  cry  about  a  thing  like  that.  She's  my 
little  sister — littler  than  me — and  she's  never  going  to 
marry.  We're  going  to  live  together  always  and  have 
chipped  potatoes  and  sausages  for  breakfast." 

A  smile  twisted  the  thin  straight  lips  of  the  sallow 
woman ;  it  was  the  first  that  Peter  had  seen  there.  It  was 
almost  tender — like  a  thing  forgotten  coming  back. 

He  laughed — he  was  always  ready  to  laugh  at  himself. 
"You  think  that's  funny?  Father  thinks  it's  funny,  too. 
He  says,  Teterkins,  Peterkins,  time'll  change  all  that.'  But 
it  won't  you  know,  'cause  we  mean  it  truly." 

"But  wouldn't  it  be  very  sad  not  to  marry?  Wouldn't 
you  like  one  day  to  have  a  little  boy  just  like  yourself  ?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I'm  an  awful  worry.  No,  I  don't 
think  so.  But  I'd  like  to  have  a  little  girl  like  Kay — and 
I'll  have  her,  anyhow." 

The  arm  of  the  sallow  woman  stole  round  his  shoulder. 
"Who  says  you're  an  awful  worry?" 

"That's  why  I'm  here,  you  know.  I  worried  them  with 
my  queer  questions.  When  I'm  the  same  as  other  people, 
they'll  let  me  come  back." 

"I  don't  think  you're  a  worry.  I  hope  you'll  never  be  like 
anyone  else." 

"But  you  mustn't  say  that,  'cause  you're  to  change  me. 
I'm  glad  you  like  me." 

"Then  be  glad  I  love  you,"  she  whispered. 

The  lonely  woman's  heart  opened  to  Peter.  He  told  her 
all  about  Kay  and  Grace  and  Romance;  he  thought  she 
ought  to  know  everything  since  she  was  to  cure  him.  But 
instead  of  curing  him  she  almost — almost  made  him  worse. 

There  was  a  strange  furtiveness  in  their  relation ;  the 
other  boys  must  not  suspect.  Miss  Rufus  despised  favor 
itism;  she  tried  to  be  very  hard  on  Peter  in  lesson-hours. 
He  understood  and  smiled  to  himself. 


ii2  THE    RAFT 

He  was  terribly  homesick.  He  wanted  Kay  badly.  He 
wanted  to  hear  her  laughter.  He  marked  each  hour  by 
what  they  were  doing  at  Topbury.  Now  they  were  sitting 
down  to  breakfast;  now  Kay  was  going  with  his  mother 
shopping;  now  the  dinner  was  being  set  and  his  father's 
key  was  grating  in  the  latch.  Sounds  and  smells  would 
bring  sudden  and  stabbing  remembrance.  He  would  hear 
the  garden  with  the  dead  leaves  rustling,  see  the  nursery 
gleaming  in  the  firelight  and  a  little  girl  being  made  ready 
for  bed.  Oh,  she  must  be  frightened  without  Peter,  at  the 
top  of  that  tall  dark  house! 

At  night,  when  Miss  Rufus  broke  her  rule  against  favor 
itism  and,  stealing  to  his  room,  pressed  his  head  against  her 
bony  breast  while  he  said  his  prayers,  it  was  then  that  he 
thought  of  his  mother  with  most  poignancy. 

But  he  was  to  be  a  little  knight,  so  those  weekly  letters 
which  commenced  "My  Beloveds,"  were  written  stout 
heartedly.  They  must  never  guess.  But  Nan  saw  the  trem 
ble  in  the  sprawling  hand  and  the  blots,  where  diluted  ink 
had  spread. 

"Billy  boy,  we  must  have  him  back,  I  can't  bear  it." 

"Nonsense,  darling.    The  chap's  quite  happy." 

"He  isn't.  He  isn't.  And  you  know  it.  Kay  wants  him 
— she's  fretting.  I  want  him,  and  you  want  him  as  much 
as  any  of  us.  I  want  to  hear  his  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  to 
see  his  clothes  lying  about,  and — and " 

"But  it  isn't  what  we  want,  little  Nan ;  it's  what's  best 
for  him.  He's  as  nervous  as  a  cat — always  has  been.  Give 
him  a  year  of  sea-air." 

Nan  missed  him  terribly.  No  merry  voice  awoke  her  in 
the  morning.  The  ceiling  above  her  bed  never  shook  with 
childish  prancing.  Kay,  by  herself,  was  very  quiet.  She 
was  always  asking  where  was  Peter :  had  he  gone  to  heaven  ? 

But  it  was  when  she  came  home  at  nightfall  along  the 
Terrace  that  Nan's  longing  was  most  intense.  Childhood 
would  be  all  too  short  at  best.  Too  soon  the  years  would 
take  him  from  her.  One  day  she  would  give  anything  for 
just  one  evening  of  the  joy  that  she  now  might  have.  Who 


PETER   IN   EGYPT  113 

could  tell  what  the  future  held?     An  old  woman,  gray- 
headed,  she  would  sit  and  whisper  to  herself, 

"Oh,  to  come  home  once  more,  when  the  dusk  is  falling, 

To  see  the  nursery  lighted  and  the  children's  table  spread; 
'Mother,  mother,  mother !'  the  eager  voices  calling, 
'The  baby  was  so  sleepy  that  she  had  to  go  to  bed !' " 

Thinking  these  thoughts,  Nan  would  sink  her  face  in  her 
hands,  foretasting  the  solitude  that  was  surely  coming. 

But  it  was  for  Peter's  good,  his  father  said.  He  looked 
very  intently  at  the  Dutch  landscape  by  Cuyp,  seeking 
quiet  from  it,  when  he  said  it. 

As  for  curing  him,  Miss  Rufus  was  the  wrong  person 
to  do  that.  Peter  was  aware  of  it.  He  had  made  her  as 
bad  as  himself.  He  had  set  her  loving.  He  must  look  for 
help  elsewhere. 

On  Saturdays  Mr.  Waffles  called  for  him — quite  a  splen 
did  Mr.  Waffles  with  soaped  mustaches  and  rather  shabby 
spats.  He  was  taken  to  Madeira  Lodge,  shiny  with  its 
newly  purchased  highly  polished  furniture.  In  the  after 
noons  he  walked  with  Mr.  Waffles  to  Birchdale,  where  the 
dunes  stretched  away  in  billows  of  sand  and  the  air  was 
always  blowy.  In  the  evenings  he  played  with  his  cousins 
till  it  was  time  to  return  to  Miss  Rufus.  Across  the  road 
from  Madeira  Lodge  was  a  Methodist  Chapel  and  beside 
it  a  plot  of  waste  land.  To  this  place  he  would  escape  when 
he  got  the  chance.  The  grass  grew  rank;  it  was  easy  to 
hide  among  the  withered  evening-primroses.  He  had  come 
to  a  great  conclusion :  no  one  but  God  could  cure  him. 
There,  behind  the  Methodist  Chapel,  he  argued  with  God 
about  it,  praying  for  Kay's  sake  that  he  might  be  made 
well.  Nothing  happened — perhaps  because  Glory  found 
him  and,  having  found  him,  was  always  following  him  to 
his  place  of  hiding.  He  pledged  her  to  secrecy,  told  her  his 
trouble  and  asked  her  advice  about  it.  But  she  only  stared 
with  dumb  love  in  her  eyes  and  shook  her  quiet  head. 

Of  his  longing  to  return  he  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  Miss 
Rufus — she  was  too  fond  of  him.  Nor  must  he  mention  it 


114  THE    RAFT 

in  his  letters.  Aunt  Jehane — ah,  well,  she  spoke  of  his 
parents  as  though  they  were  entirely  mistaken  about  every 
thing.  She  was  always  trying  to  prove  to  him  how  much 
more  broad-minded,  clever  and  generous  she  and  Uncle 
Waffles  were.  Her  jealous  nature  prompted  her  to  steal  the 
boy's  heart  by  every  expedient  of  kindness  and  flattery. 
She  told  him  scandal  about  her  neighbors.  She  spoke  of 
love  between  boys  and  girls.  She  made  him  kiss  Glory  and 
laughed  at  his  awkwardness.  She  gave  him  special  treats 
at  his  meals.  She  boasted  about  her  husband,  saying  how 
well  he  was  getting  on  and  how  much  he  would  do  for 
Peter.  And  she  did  all  this  that  Peter  might  tell  her  that 
he  was  happier  at  Sandport  than  at  Topbury. 

Peter  couldn't  tell  her  that.  He  had  commenced  her  ac 
quaintance  with  a  prejudice.  He  could  never  forget  that 
she  had  once  been  the  smacking  lady.  He  watched  her  with 
his  cousins,  how  she  was  foolishly  lenient  or  foolishly 
severe,  but  wise  never.  She  allowed  herself  to  punish  them 
unjustly;  but  if  anyone,  even  their  father,  blamed  them, 
they  were  "My  Eustace"  and  "My  girls."  Especially  was 
this  the  case  with  Glory,  in  whose  making  Mr.  Waffles 
could  claim  no  share.  She  could  always  humble  his  uncle 
by  speaking  regretfully  of  Captain  Spashett. 

For  Uncle  Waffles  Peter  had  a  fellow  sympathy;  it  was 
to  him  he  turned.  On  those  walks  among  the  sand-hills 
they  had  fine  talks  together. 

"Old  son,  I  did  a  big  stroke  of  business  this  week.  Oh 
yes,  I  tell  you,  this  little  boy  knows  his  way  about  town. 
Had  two  more  acres  offered  me,  and  borrowed  money  for 
the  purchase.  They're  a  long  way  out,  but  Sandport'll  grow 
to  them.  Now  what  d'you  know  about  that?" 

Uncle  Waffles  was  often  confessional  with  Peter  and 
always  exuberant.  He  asked  his  opinion  on  business  af 
fairs  as  though  his  opinion  mattered.  He  seemed  to  keep 
nothing  back,  even  touching  on  things  domestic. 

"You  mustn't  think  I'm  complaining  of  the  Duchess. 
She's  a  snorter.  But,  you  know,  she's  never  understood  me. 
I'm  taking  her  in  hand  though,  and  educating  her  up  to  my 


PETER    IN    EGYPT  115 

standard.  When  first  I  knew  her,  she  seemed  to  think  that 
loving  was  wicked.  Now  what  d'you  know  about  that?" 

Peter  watched  for  the  results  of  the  educating  and  was 
disappointed.  When  Uncle  Waffles  tried  to  kiss  Aunt  Je- 
hane,  she  still  drew  aside  her  head,  saying,  "Don't  be  silly, 
Ocky."  She  left  the  room  when  he  began  to  tell  his  latest 
funny  story.  It  was  odd,  if  he  was  really  successful,  that 
she  should  always  treat  him  like  that. 

And  there  were  other  secrets  Peter  learnt — that  his  uncle 
had  an  obscure  disease  which  no  one  must  mention.  His 
uncle  was  very  brave  and  laughed  about  it.  It  could  be 
kept  in  check,  so  long  as  he  took  his  "medicine"  regularly. 
His  "medicine"  could  be  obtained  at  any  public  house  and 
was  frequently  obtained  on  those  Saturday  excursions  to 
and  from  Birchdale.  When  Glory  accompanied  them, 
Uncle  Waffles  contrived  to  do  without  it. 

At  Christmas  Peter  was  put  in  charge  of  the  guard  and 
returned  to  Topbury.  The  month  that  followed  was  epoch- 
making — a  bitter  pleasure.  Like  a  man  living  on  his  capi 
tal,  he  was  always  reckoning  how  much  was  left.  And 
then  the  respite  ended  and  the  exile  in  Egypt  recommenced. 

He  clenched  his  hands.  He  would  not  cry.  And  yet . 

It  was  Kay  he  wanted.  His  whole  life  was  wrapt  up  in 
her. 

The  first  day  back  at  school  he  noticed  that  one  of  his 
companions  was  absent.  The  second  and  the  third  day 
passed ;  then  the  news  leaked  out  that  he  was  dead.  It 
dawned  on  Peter  that  death  was  a  peril  that  threatened 
everybody.  No  amount  of  care  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Grace 
or  the  policeman  could  shield  Kay  from  it.  The  thought 
became  a  nightmare.  Miss  Rufus  discovered  that  he  was 
unhappy;  he  cried  at  night  in  bed.  She  was  hurt;  but, 
when  he  told  her,  she  was  more  gentle  with  him  than  ever. 

Midway  through  the  term  a  telegram  arrived.  Its  mes 
sage  was  broken  to  him  by  Uncle  Waffles.  Kay  was  dan 
gerously  ill  and  calling  for  him ;  he  was  to  go  back. 

A  drizzling  rain  hung  over  London.  The  streets  were 
clogged  with  mud,  and  gas-lamps  shone  drearily  through 


n6  THE    RAFT 

the  drifting  murk.  Throughout  the  long  and  dismal  jour 
ney  he  had  sat  pale-faced ;  in  the  intervals  between  praying 
he  had  told  himself  that,  were  she  to  die,  he  would  never 
forgive  his  father  for  having  separated  him  from  her.  He 
was  stunned  and  yet  fiercely  rebellious.  In  spite  of  his  des 
perate  hope,  he  was  prepared  for  the  worst. 

At  the  station  Grace  met  him.  Indiscreet  through  grief, 
she  told  him  how  from  the  first  of  her  three  days'  illness 
his  little  sister  had  never  ceased  calling  for  him. 

"  'Er  temp'rature's  runned  up  with  fretting,  poor  lamb ; 
but  you  was  allaws  h'able  to  quiet  'er,  Master  Peter." 

Before  the  cab  had  halted  on  the  Terrace,  Peter  was  up 
the  steps.  Someone  had  been  behind  the  blinds,  watching; 
the  door  opened  almost  before  he  had  rung  the  bell.  His 
father  stood  before  him.  In  his  hot  anger  Peter  dodged 
beneath  his  arm  and  commenced  to  mount  the  stairs.  If 
he  had  been  there,  he  felt  sure,  this  would  not  have  hap 
pened. 

From  the  room  in  which  she  had  been  born  came  the 
heavy  smell  of  eucalyptus.  Peter  opened  the  door;  a  fire 
was  burning,  as  when  he  had  first  found  her  there.  A  cot 
was  drawn  up  to  the  fire  and  from  it  came  a  ceaseless  tired 
wailing.  In  the  wailing  he  made  out  his  name,  uttered  over 
and  over.  As  he  ran  forward,  his  mother  rose  to  put  her 
arms  about  him.  He  rushed  past  her :  she  did  not  count. 
Bending  over  the  cot,  he  gazed  into  the  flushed  face.  The 
hoarse  voice  stopped.  The  lips,  cracked  with  fever,  pressed 
against  his  mouth. 

"Little  Kay,  it's  truly  Peter.  He's  never  going  to  leave 
you." 

From  the  moment  he  touched  her,  she  began  to  mend. 

Some  days  later,  when  relief  from  suspense  left  leisure 
for  attention  to  other  matters,  Mr.  Barrington  wrote  to 
Miss  Rufus,  saying  that  his  son  would  not  return.  In  reply 
he  received  a  curious  confidence.  She  had  advertised  her 
school  for  sale,  and  it  was  Peter's  doing.  Peter  had  taught 
her  that,  except  love,  nothing  mattered. 


PETER   IN   EGYPT  117 

Peter's  father  had  seen  Miss  Rufus ;  he  thought  that  love 
on  her  lips  was  an  odd  word.  Couldn't  one  love  and  still 
keep  a  school?  It  was  very  Peterish  of  Peter  to  make  a 
lady  with  a  corrugated  countenance  do  a  thing  like  that. 
Something  lay  behind  the  letter.  Later,  when  the  scandal 
had  become  public,  Jehane  informed  them  what  that  some 
thing  was. 

Peter's  father  felt  penitent.  He  took  his  son  between  his 
knees,  resting  his  hand  on  his  curly  head,  and  gazed  at  him 
intently  as  though  for  the  first  time  he  was  beginning  to 
know  him. 

"Have  you  forgiven  me,  little  chap?"  Then,  "I  was 
mistaken  about  you.  Your  mother  was  right.  Go  on  being 
Peterish  to  your  heart's  content.  We  love  you  best  like 
that." 

To  Nan  he  said,  "You  should  have  seen  that  woman. 
She  was  barbed  wire  all  round — impregnable.  Absolutely. 
But  Peter — well !  We've  got  a  queer  little  shrimp  for  our 
son  and  heir." 


CHAPTER   XV 
MARRIED  LIFE 

PETER  went  laughing  through  the  spring-world — it  had 
become  all  kindness.  In  some  strange  way  he  had  saved 
Kay's  life.  Everybody  said  so.  He  did  not  know  how. 
And  now  she  was  strong  and  well — more  his  than  ever. 

"  'Appy,  Master  Peter?  H'always  'appy,"  Mr.  Grace 
would  say  when  they  met  on  the  cab-stand. 

Yes,  Peter  was  always  happy  now.  His  eyes  were  blue 
torches  of  joy  which  burnt  up  other  people's  sadness.  His 
golden  little  motherkins  forgot  her  dread  of  when  he  would 
become  a  man ;  she  held  him  tightly  in  the  nest  at  Topbury, 
surrounding  him  with  her  gentle  love.  His  father  showed 
his  affection  in  a  man's  fashion  by  making  Peter  his  friend. 
And  Kay,  racing  down  the  garden-path  and  dancing  with 
the  flowers  in  the  sunshine,  put  the  feeling  which  they  all 
experienced  into  words,  "The  joy's  gone  into  my  feet, 
Peter;  I'm  so  glad." 

Never  again  would  anyone  suspect  him  of  harming  her. 
He  could  gather  her  to  him  and  tell  her  tales  to  his  heart's 
content.  And  what  games  of  pretending  they  played  to 
gether!  The  old-fashioned  garden  became  a  forest  of 
limitless  expanse  and  the  house  a  castle.  Kay  was  a  prin 
cess  in  danger  and  Peter  was  a  knight  who  came  to  her 
rescue.  Peter  taught  his  mother  and  father  his  pretence- 
language,  so  that  they  might  play  their  part  as  king  and 
queen  of  the  castle.  Peter's  father  learnt  that  he  did  not 
go  to  business  in  the  morning,  but  to  the  wars.  In  the 
evening,  when  he  returned,  he  would  sometimes  see  two 
merry  faces  watching  for  him  from  the  top-windows — the 
top-windows  were  the  battlements.  Then  he  felt  that, 

118 


MARRIED    LIFE  119 

grown  man  though  he  was,  he  ought  to  prance  up  the 
Terrace,  as  his  legs  would  have  done  had  they  been  really 
those  of  a  royal  charger. 

Peter  had  brought  back  the  spirit  of  fun-making  to  Top- 
bury.  In  the  garden  by  day,  where  the  wind  whispered 
round  the  walls,  and  the  trees  let  in  glimpses  of  high-flying 
clouds,  and  in  the  nursery  at  twilight,  where  the  laburnum 
leant  her  arms  on  the  window-sill  to  listen,  nodding  her 
golden  tassels,  he  created  his  imaginary  world.  Here  the 
king  and  queen  would  join  them  almost  shyly,  as  if  they 
feared  that  their  presence  might  disturb.  They  came  hand- 
in-hand  on  tiptoe.  Peter  noticed  how  different  they  were 
from  Aunt  Jehane  and  Uncle  Waffles :  they  were  never 
tired  of  being  lovers. 

"Please,  Peter,  we  want  to  be  your  little  boy  and  girl. 
May  we  hear  your  story?" 

The  invisible  arms  of  the  threatened  death  had  drawn 
them  very  near  together.  Like  the  spring  about  them,  their 
hearts  were  emotional  with  exultant  tenderness. 

Like  all  children,  Kay  and  Peter  had  their  place  of  hid 
ing,  where  they  lived  their  most  secret  world.  It  was  the 
loft  above  the  unused  stable.  One  had  to  climb  up  boxes 
and  scramble  through  a  hole  in  the  ceiling  to  get  to  it.  It 
was  thick  in  dust  and  cob-webs,  but  they  cleaned  a  space 
where  they  could  sit  and  pretend  it  was  their  house  and  that 
they  were  married.  There  was  only  one  window,  smoth 
ered  in  ivy,  looking  out  on  the  garden.  From  here  they 
could  observe  whether  anyone  was  coming.  There  were 
chinks  in  the  floor  which  served  as  spy-holes ;  through  one 
of  them  they  could  see  the  stall  in  which  the  tandem-tri 
cycle  was  kept.  They  planned  to  explore  all  manner  of 
countries  when  Kay's  legs  were  long  enough  to  reach  the 
pedals. 

"Can't  think  where  you  kiddies  get  to,"  their  father  said ; 
"I  believe  it's  somewhere  in  the  stable.  I've  been  calling 
and  calling:" 

And  Peter  laughed,  for  he  knew  that  grown  people  were 
far  too  sensible  to  think  of  climbing  into  the  loft  in  search 


120  THE    RAFT 

of  them.     Only  one  grown  person  was  so  adventurous — 
but  that  comes  later. 

When  letters  arrived  from  Sandport  they  were  usually 
addressed  to  Nan ;  as  a  rule  the  first  post  brought  them, 
and  she  would  read  out  extracts  as  they  sat  at  breakfast. 

They  were  curious  letters,  written  in  a  jealous  spirit,  but 
intended  to  create  an  impression  of  contentment.  They 
were  in  the  nature  of  veiled  retorts  which  said,  "So  you  see, 
my  husband's  as  good  as  yours."  Without  knowing  it,  they 
betrayed  envy.  If  Nan  had  given  news  concerning  the  do 
ings  of  herself,  Billy  or  her  children,  Jehane  would  reply 
with  parallel  details  concerning  her  family.  Just  as  in  con 
versation  she  spoke  of  her  husband  as  Mr.  Waffles,  as 
though  the  very  name  were  a  title  inspiring  awe,  so  in  cor 
respondence  she  quoted  his  opinions,  as  a  loving  wife  would 
the  sayings  of  a  man  she  worshiped.  Jehane  wrote  less 
and  less  in  the  mood  of  spontaneous  friendship;  if  she  had 
nothing  better  to  say,  one  wondered  that  she  took  the  trou 
ble  to  write  at  all.  Probably  she  did  it  out  of  habit  and, 
perhaps,  in  order  to  hoodwink  herself. 

And  she  was  evasive.  Questions  as  to  how  Ocky's  enter 
prise  was  progressing  were  left  unanswered — in  place  of 
answers  were  loose  optimistic  statements.  A  letter  from 
Sandport  usually  brought  with  it  an  atmosphere  of  annoy 
ance.  Nan  exercised  her  tact  in  selecting  portions  to  be 
read  aloud.  It  was  in  keeping  with  Ocky's  character  that, 
even  when  Barrington  had  written  himself,  Jehane  did  the 
replying,  saying  that  her  husband  was  very  busy  at  present 
with  new  developments. 

!  One  morning  Nan  passed  a  letter  down  the  table  without 
comment.  Barrington's  brows  drew  together  in  a  frown ; 
halfway  through  reading  it  he  flung  it  from  him. 

"Another!  Well,  I  must  say  they  might  have  waited 
until  they  knew  whether  they  could  afford — 

Nan  interrupted  him  quietly.     "Billy,  not  before " 

She  glanced  at  the  children. 

When  they  were  supposed  to  have  forgotten  what  their 


MARRIED    LIFE  121 

father  had  said,  Kay  and  Peter  were  informed — Aunt  Je- 
hane  had  another  little  girl. 

That  evening  the  king  and  queen  of  the  castle  talked  to 
gether  after  the  knight  and  the  princess  had  been  put  to 
bed. 

"They've  no  right  to  do  a  thing  like  that — bringing  an 
other  child  into  the  world.  Jehane  doesn't  love  him.  It's 
my  belief  she  never  has.  The  thing's  sordid.  What  chance 
will  the  little  beggar  have?  It  puts  the  whole  business  of 
marriage  on  a  level  with  the  animals.  Ugh !" 

They  were  sitting  beneath  the  mulberry  in  the  cool  dusk. 
From  far  away,  like  waves  lapping  against  the  walls  of  a 
precipice  in  a  cranny  of  which  they  had  found  shelter,  the 
weary  complaint  of  London  reached  them.  Within  his  own 
house,  with  his  wife  and  children,  Barrington  felt  lifted 
high  above  all  that.  He  hated  this  intrusion  of  strife  and 
ugliness. 

Nan's  arm  stole  round  his  neck ;  she  had  never  lost  the 
shyness  with  which  she  had  given  him  her  first  caress. 
"Billy,  old  boy,  you  mustn't  be  angry  with  them — only  sorry. 
Don't  you  know  we're  exceptional." 

"Not  so  exceptional  as  all " 

"Yes — as  all  that.  How  many  wives  and  husbands  are 
lovers  after  they've  been  married  ten  years?" 

"Never  tried  to  count." 

"How  many  then  would  choose  one  another  again  if  they 
could  begin  afresh?" 

"Begin  afresh,  with  full  knowledge  of  everything  that 
was  to  happen?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  many." 

"Then,  who  are  we  to  judge?  We  should  just  be  thank 
ful  for  ourselves  and  sorry  for " 

"But  it's  the  children  I'm  thinking  of — children  who 
aren't  wanted,  begotten  by  parents  who  don't  want  one  an 
other." 

The  silence  was  broken  by  Nan.    "Perhaps,  Jehane  was 


122  THE    RAFT 

a  child  like  that.  I've  often  thought  it.  She's  always  been 
so  hungry — hungry  for  affection." 

"Hungry — but  jealous.  She  doesn't  go  the  right  way  to 
work  to  get  it." 

"She  hasn't  learnt;  no  one  ever  taught  her.  She's  mar 
ried;  yet  she's  still  on  the  raft. — Billy,  I  want  you  to  do 
something  for  her." 

"Me— for  her?" 

"I  want  you  to  ask  her,  as  soon  as  she's  well,  to  come 
here  to  Topbury  with  the  baby.  She's  tired.  I  can  feel  it 
in  her  letters.  I'd  like  to  help  her." 

"She'll  only  misconstrue  your  help — you  know  that. 
She'll  bore  us  to  tears  by  boasting  about  Ocky." 

"And  won't  that  be  to  her  credit  ?" 

"To  her  credit,  but  beastly  annoying.  If  she'd  only  be 
lieve  in  him  to  his  face  and  cease  shamming  that  she's 
proud  of  him  behind  his  back,  matters  might  mend.  She 
won't  let  us  make  her  affairs  our  business.  Some  day, 
when  it's  too  late,  she  may  have  to.  That's  what  I'm 
afraid  of." 

But,  when  Jehane  came,  she  set  that  fear  at  rest.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  believe  that  Ocky's  feet  were  on  the  up 
ward  ladder:  she  was  better  dressed,  happier  and  had 
money  to  spend.  She  wore  presents  of  jewelry  which  her 
husband  had  given  her — so  she  said.  The  money,  she  told 
them,  was  the  result  of  speculations  which  Ocky  had  made 
for  her  with  the  little  capital  left  by  Captain  Spashett.  She 
spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  his  cleverness.  And  the  happi 
ness — that  was  because  Barrington  had  invited  her  per 
sonally.  Naturally  she  kept  this  knowledge  to  herself. 

Nan  had  planned  to  encompass  her  with  the  atmosphere 
of  affection.  Little  gifts  from  Jehane,  received  in  her  girl 
hood,  were  set  about  the  bedroom  to  awaken  memories — 
to  let  her  know  how  well  she  was  remembered.  Jehane  no 
ticed  the  carefully  thought  out  campaign — the  efforts  that 
were  made  to  win  her.  She  wondered  what  it  all  meant; 
then  she  realized  and  was  touched. 

Nan  sat  wistfully  beside  her  friend,  watching  the  baby 


MARRIED    LIFE  123 

being  put  to  bed.  She  kissed  its  little  limbs  with  a  kind  of 
reverence  and  ministered  humbly  to  its  helplessness.  When 
Jehane  pressed  its  eager  lips  against  her  breast,  Nan's  eyes 
rilled  with  tears.  Jehane  looked  up  questioningly. 

"I  shall  never  have  another,"  Nan  said. 

Jehane  stretched  out  her  hand  and  drew  Nan  to  her. 
She  could  be  magnanimous  when  for  once  she  found  her  lot 
coveted.  When  the  baby  had  been  fed  and  was  being  laid 
in  its  cot,  Nan  slipped  to  the  window  and  leant  out,  gazing 
across  the  roofs  of  Holloway  to  Hampstead  where  the  sun 
hung  red. 

There  was  no  warning.  She  felt  lips  on  her  cheeks,  lips 
violently  kissing  her  ears  and  neck.  She  turned  with  a 
throaty  laugh.  "You  haven't  done  that  for  ages." 

"Not  kissed  you?    Of  course  I  have." 

Nan  shook  her  head.  "Not  like  that,  as  though  you 
wanted  to.  You  haven't  done  it  since  we  were  girls." 

Jehane,  half-ashamed  of  her  impulsiveness,  looked  away. 
"We've  been  too  busy  to  make  a  fuss.  But  the  feeling's 
been  there." 

"I  don't  call  that  making  a  fuss — and  it  isn't  because 
we've  been  busy.  We've  been  drifting  apart — playing  a 
game  of  hide  and  seek  with  one  another."  Then,  before 
Jehane  could  become  casual,  "I  do  so  want  to  be  friends." 

"And  aren't  we  friends?" 

"Not  in  the  old  sense.  We're  hard  and  suspicious,  and 
doubt  one  another." 

"Then  let's  be  friends  in  the  old  sense,  you  dear  little 
Nan." 

Like  Peter,  when  Nan  had  made  up  her  mind  to  be  ten 
der,  no  one  could  resist  her.  She  treated  Jehane  with 
sweet  envy,  because  of  the  baby  on  her  breast.  She  made 
believe  that  Jehane  was  fragile,  and  kept  her  in  bed  for 
breakfast.  After  Barrington  had  been  seen  off  to  business, 
she  went  up  to  help  her  dress.  It  was  in  this  hour  that 
Jehane  was  most  confessional.  She  recalled  the  dreamy 
Oxford  days,  with  their  desperate  dreams  of  love,  when  life 
was  unexperienced.  She  even  spoke  of  the  great  disillusion 


124  THE    RAFT 

that  had  followed ;  she  spoke  in  general  terms  to  include  all 
wives  and  husbands.  She  spoke  of  Waffles  as  he  had  been, 
only  that  she  might  praise  him  as  he  had  become.  Her 
fierce  loyalty  to  him,  her  wilful  consistency  in  shutting  her 
eyes  to  his  faults,  was  a  form  of  self-respect  which  never 
faltered.  Nan  found  a  difficulty  in  pretending  that  he  was 
all  that  was  claimed  for  him;  they  both  knew  that  he  was 
not.  Still,  she  was  convinced  that  he  was  mending. 

Harrington,  noticing  the  change  in  Jehane,  said,  "There 
are  only  two  things  that  could  do  it :  money  or  love.  It 
isn't  love,  so  we  have  to  believe  that  it's " 

But  it  was  love — love  for  Barrington  and  the  effect  of 
being  near  him.  Even  she  herself  wondered  at  how  the  old 
infatuation  had  lasted.  Her  very  bitterness  had  been  a 
form  of  love.  Now  that  he  went  out  of  his  way  to  be  kind 
to  her  all  the  passion  in  her  responded — but  she  had  to  dis 
guise  its  response. 

At  night,  with  another  man's  child  in  her  arms,  she  lay 
awake.  In  the  darkness  and  silence  she  told  herself  stories, 
juggling  with  circumstances. 

Once  she  heard  a  tapping  on  her  door.  She  crouched 
against  the  wall,  shuddering. 

The  handle  turned.  Nan  stood  on  the  threshold.  "I 
thought  I  heard  you  moving." 

Guilty  and  angry,  Jehane  said  nothing.  Nan  groped  her 
way  toward  the  bed  and  found  it  empty. 

"Jehane,  Janey,"  she  called. 

Then  she  saw  her,  stooped  to  her  and  caught  her  in  her 
arms,  begging  for  an  explanation.  Just  as  once,  when  she 
had  asserted,  "Jehane  I  did,  I  did  play  fair,"  so  now  she 
got  no  answer — only,  "I'm  stupid,  dear ;  I'll  be  better  in  the 
morning." 

Cold  with  alarm,  Nan  crept  downstairs  and  hid  herself  in 
Billy's  arms.  He  was  too  sleepy  to  give  the  matter  much 
attention.  "She's  odd,  darling.  Never  understood  her. 
Poor  old  Ocky !" 

The  intoxication  and  the  madness  were  gone.  Fear  had 
come.  Any  moment  they  might  guess.  With  fear  came 


MARRIED    LIFE  125 

contrition :  she  would  idolize  her  husband  more,  till  he  be 
came  for  her  the  man  he  was  not.  Next  morning  she  sur 
prised  Nan  by  announcing  that  she  was  homesick  for  Ocky, 
that  her  things  were  packed  and  she  would  return  to  Sand- 
port  at  once.  There  was  no  dissuading  her.  In  her  heart 
she  had  determined  to  wipe  out  her  faithlessness  by  educat 
ing  her  husband  into  largeness  by  love. 

When  the  train  had  moved  out  of  the  station  Billy  stared 
at  Nan  puzzled.  "Really  does  look  as  if  she'd  grown  fond 
of  him!  Eh  what?" 

Nan  squeezed  his  arm.  "Perhaps  she  always  was  fond 
of  him  and  we  were  sceptics." 

"She  may  be  now.    She  wasn't." 

"Is  it  because  he's  got  money?" 

"Does  make  a  difference,  doesn't  it?" 

Nan  pressed  against  him  and  looked  up  laughing.  "Be 
tween  you  and  me  it  wouldn't." 

"Think  not?" 

"Never." 

Hidden  in  a  cab,  he  caught  her  to  him.    "You  darling !" 

She  held  him  from  her,  blushing.  "But  why  now? 
What's  this  for?" 

"Jehane  makes  me  thankful  for  what  I've  got." 

That  evening  a  man  moved  along  the  Terrace,  halted  as 
though  he  were  minded  to  turn  back,  moved  on  and  at  last 
knocked  at  Barrington's  door.  While  he  waited  he  mopped 
his  forehead ;  his  manner  was  furtive. 

Once  inside  the  hall  he  became  important,  handing  his 
card  with  a  flourish.  Left  alone  while  the  maid  announced 
his  presence,  he  fiddled  with  his  necktie  and  twisted  his 
soaped  mustaches. 

Barrington  burst  in  on  him.  "Anything  the  matter,  old 
man?" 

"Matter?     'Course  not." 

"Didn't  you  know  that  Jehane  went  home  this  morning?" 

"Got  your  telegram  just  as  I  was  leaving.  Had  business 
in  London.  Couldn't  put  it  off." 

"Must  have  been  important.     She'll  be  disappointed." 


126  THE    RAFT 

"It  was." 

"Suppose  it's  too  late  for  you  to  start  to-night?"  Har 
rington  pulled  out  his  watch.  "Humph !  Stop  with  us, 
won't  you  ? — Had  dinner  ? — All  right.  Let's  go  out.  Nan's 
in  the  garden." 

What  was  it  that  had  brought  him?  Barrington  kept 
asking  himself  that  question.  As  usual,  Ocky  was  voluble 

and  plausible,  but His  high  spirits  were  forced ;  he 

avoided  the  eye  when  watched.  He  rattled  on  about  the 
possibilities  of  Sandport.  He  talked  of  the  friends  he  had 
made — men  whom  Barrington  guessed  to  be  of  no  impor 
tance.  He  repeated  his  friends'  hilarious  stories,  "Here's 
a  good  one  John  told  me "  It  was  Ocky  who  discov 
ered  the  humor  in  the  story  and  laughed. 

Trees  grew  more  dense  against  the  dark.  Lights  in 
houses  were  extinguished.  The  roar  of  London,  like  a 
voice  wearied  of  quarreling,  which  mumbled  vexatiously 
in  a  last  retort,  sank  away  into  silence.  But  this  tireless 
voice  at  his  side  went  on,  babbling  of  nothing,  talking  and 
talking. 

Nan  rose.  "I'm  sleepy.  You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you? 
Billy,  darling,  don't  be  long." 

Ocky  refilled  his  foul  pipe — with  a  pipe  between  his  teeth 
he  felt  fortified. 

Barrington  waited  for  him  to  reach  his  point — there  was 
a  point  he  felt  sure.  Ocky's  visits  always  had  an  ulterior 
motive. 

"Everything  all  right  at  Madeira  Lodge?" 

"Topping." 

"And  the  land  investment?" 

"Fine." 

"Then  what  brought  you?" 

Ocky  was  as  shocked  as  if  a  gun  had  been  fired  in  his 
face.  The  question  was  unkind.  He'd  tried  to  be  sociable 
and  to  stave  off  unpleasantness — and  this  was  the  thanks  he 
got  He  squirmed  uneasily;  the  wicker-chair  creaked,  be 
traying  his  agitation. 


MARRIED    LIFE  127 

"That's  a  rotten  thing  to  say  to  a  fellow,  Billy.  What 
brought  me,  indeed !" 

It  was  Harrington's  turn  to  shift  in  his  chair.  He  hated 
to  be  called  Billy  by  Waffles.  The  offence  was  repeated. 

"You're  confoundedly  direct,  Billy.  Whenever  I  visit 
you,  you  always  think  I've  come  to  get  something." 

"And  haven't  you?"     Barrington's  voice  was  hard. 

"Well,  I  have,  now  you  mention  it." 

A  pause. 

Barrington  lost  patience.  "Why  can't  you  get  it  out  like 
a  man?  You've  done  something  while  Jehane's  been  away 
— something  that  made  you  afraid  to  meet  her.  Haven't 
you?" 

"Jehane ! In  a  sense  it's  her  doing.  Don't  see  why 

she  should  make  me  afraid." 

"Her  doing!     In  what  way?" 

Ocky  struck  a  match ;  finding  his  pipe  empty,  he  held  the 
match  till  it  burnt  his  fingers.  "I'm  not  blaming  Jehane, 
but  it  is  her  doing  up  to  a  point.  She  wants  money  to  dress 
her  girls  up  to  the  nines.  She  wants  money  to  make  the 
house  look  stylish.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Jehane,  I  should 
never  have  left  old  Wagstaff  s  office.  Mind,  I'm  not  blam 
ing  her.  But  where  was  the  money  to  come  from  ?" 

"You  let  her  believe  you  were  making  it." 

"Eh  ?    So  I  was.    So  I  shall  if  I  can  only  get  time." 

"Where'd  you  get  the  money  she's  already  had?" 

"It's  her  money  that  I  invested  for  her." 

"You've  been  living  on  the  principal — is  that  it?  On  the 
money  that  should  have  gone  to  Glory." 

The  tension  proved  too  great  for  Ocky.  A  joke  might 
relieve  the  situation.  "Seems  to  me  that's  where  it's  gone." 
When  no  laugh  followed  he  hastened  to  add,  "Financial 
pressure.  Of  course  I'm  sorry."  Then,  "I  want  you  to 
lend  me  enough  to  tide  me  over." 

"I've  been  tiding  you  over  all  your  life.  You'll  have  to 
tell  her.  When  you've  told  her,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  once 
more." 


ia8  THE    RAFT 

For  the  first  time  that  evening  the  foolish  tone  of  banter 
went  out  of  the  weak  man's  voice. 

"For  God's  sake !  Don't  make  me  do  that.  You  don't 
know  what  a  punishment  you're  inventing.  D'you  know 
what  that'd  do  to  her? — kill  what  little  love  she  has  for  me. 
She'd  hate  me.  She'd  despise  me  even  more  than  she  does 
already.  I've  got  to  live  with  her.  Oh,  my  God !" 

Barrington  drew  back  into  the  shadow.  He  was  deeply 
moved,  and  ashamed  of  it. 

The  other  man,  goaded  deeper  into  sincerity  by  his  si 
lence,  continued,  pleading  brokenly. 

"You  can't  understand.  Between  you  and  Nan  it's  al 
ways  been  different.  You're  strong  and  she's  so  tender. 
But  I — I'm  weak.  I  try  to  do  right,  but  I'm  everlastingly 
in  the  wrong.  I've  had  to  crawl  for  every  scrap  of  love  my 
wife  ever  gave  me.  She's  thrown  it  at  me  like  a  bone  to  a 
dog.  I'm  a  poor  flimsy  devil.  I  know  it.  We  never  ought 
to  have  married — she's  too  splendid.  But  she's  all  I've  got. 
I  thought — I  thought  if  I  could  take  her  money  and  double 
it,  she'd  respect  me  at  last — believe  me  clever.  I  did  make 
money  for  her  at  first.  I  saw  what  a  difference  it  made. 
Then  I  lost.  I  was  afraid  to  tell  her,  so  went  on.  I 
thought  I'd  win  if  I  tried  again.  And  she — after  the  first 
time,  she  expected  the  extra  money  from  me.  Little  by 
little  it  all  went.  But  don't  make  me  tell  her." 

"Then  it  wasn't  lost  in  land  speculation?" 

"Part,  but  most  in  stocks  bought  on  margins.  My  life's 
been  hell  for  the  past  six  months.  Don't  make  me  tell  her." 

Barrington  rose.  "It's  late.  I'll  let  you  know  to-morrow. 
You  must  give  me  a  complete  list  of  your  indebtedness. 
Whatever  I  decide,  I  think  you  ought  not  to  deceive  Je- 

hane And,  by  the  way,  say  the  thing  you  mean  when 

we  talk  of  this  to-morrow.  Say  give,  instead  of  lend.  I 
prefer  frankness." 

That  "whatever  I  decide"  told  Ocky  his  battle  was  won. 
One  night's  sleep  placed  all  his  dread  behind  him.  His  lack 
of  self-respect  permitted  him  to  recuperate  rapidly.  Early 
in  the  morning  he  was  up  and  in  the  garden,  whistling 


MARRIED    LIFE  129 

cheerfully  as  though  he  had  suffered  no  humiliation.  Peter 
heard  him  and  ran  to  greet  him.  For  an  hour  before  break 
fast  they  exchanged  secrets  and  Peter,  in  a  burst  of  confi 
dence,  initiated  his  uncle  into  the  mystery  of  the  loft. 

"A  fine  place  to  hide,  Peter?" 

"Rather." 

"And  you  never  told  anyone  before?" 

"No  one." 

"And  you  told  me!  Well,  what  d'you  know  about  that? 
You  must  be  somehow  fond  of  this  poor  old  uncle." 

Peter's  father  heard  them  laughing  and  was  annoyed. 
His  night  had  been  restless.  He  was  still  more  irritated 
when,  on  entering  the  stable,  he  found  Ocky  with  his  arm 
round  Peter's  shoulder.  In  the  sunlight  he  saw  at  a  glance 
how  his  cousin  had  deteriorated.  His  gait  was  more 
slouchy,  his  expression  more  furtive,  his  teeth  more  broken 
with  constant  biting  on  the  pipe.  His  attempts  at  smartness 
— the  soaped  mustaches  and  the  dusty  spats — were  wretch 
edly  offensive;  they  were  so  ineffectually  pretentious. 

The  weak  man's  hand  commenced  to  fumble  in  his  pocket 
as  Harrington's  eyes  searched  him. 

"Where's  my  baccy?  Must  have  dropped  it.  Seen  my 
pouch  anywhere,  Peter?" 

"It's  in  your  hand,  uncle."  Peter  went  off  into  a  peal  of 
laughter. 

"Surely  you  can  do  without  smoking  till  after  breakfast." 

Peter's  laugh  stopped,  cut  short  by  the  sternness  in  his 
father's  voice. 

In  his  study,  an  hour  later,  Barrington  asked,  "You're 
sure  there's  nothing  else?  There's  no  good  in  my  giving 
you  anything  unless  you  make  a  clean  breast  to  me.  And 
mind,  this  is  absolutely  the  last  time  I  save  you.  From  this 
moment  you've  got  to  go  on  your  own." 

"On  my  honor,  Billy,  there's  nothing." 

Ocky  had  a  constitutional  weakness  for  lies ;  so  he  told 
one  now  when  it  hindered  his  purpose. 

Barrington  eyed  him  doubtfully.  "If  you've  not  told  me 
the  truth,  Jehane  shall  know  all." 


i3o  THE    RAFT 

"Can't  pledge  you  more  than  my  honor,  Billy." 

The  check  was  signed.  He  had  gained  a  new  lease  on 
life.  His  contrition  left  him,  expelled  by  his  fatal  optimism. 
He  was  again  a  facetious  dog,  whose  paltry  mistakes  lay  in 
the  distant  past.  At  parting  he  tipped  Peter  a  pound,  with 
characteristic  careless  generosity.  As  he  walked  down  the 
Terrace,  he  tilted  his  hat  to  a  more  jaunty  angle.  On  his 
way  to  the  station  he  bought  some  flashy  jewelry  for 
Jehane  and  the  children.  Long  before  he  reached  Sand- 
port,  he  had  so  far  risen  in  his  own  estimation  that  he 
thought  of  himself  as  a  bold  financier,  who  had  done  a  most 
excellent  stroke  of  business  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of 
time.  As  for  Barrington — oh,  he'd  always  been  narrow- 
minded.  The  money  was  a  loan  that  he'd  soon  pay  back. 

As  he  approached  Madeira  Lodge,  Jehane  was  watering 
flowers  in  the  garden.  He  hailed  her  from  a  distance, 
"Hulloa,  Duchess !" 

She,  being  penitent  for  a  treachery  of  which  he  had  no 
knowledge,  restrained  her  disgust  at  the  detested  nickname. 
She  was  going  to  be  a  good  and  faithful  wife — she  had 
quite  made  up  her  mind.  The  street-door  had  scarcely 
shut  behind  them,  when  she  flung  her  arms  about  him.  He 
was  taken  by  surprise. 

"I  was  lonely  without  you,  Ocky — that's  why  I  came 
back." 

"Lonely!    Lonely  for  me?" 

"Yes.    Why— why  not?" 

"Dun'  know.     Sounds  odd  from  you,  old  lady." 

"From  me?  From  your  wife?  Didn't  you  feel  the  house 
— feel  it  empty  with  me  away?" 

His  hands  clutched  at  her  shoulders.  "And  when  you 
were  not  away  sometimes.  Old  gel,  I've  always  been  lonely 
for  you." 

She  brought  her  face  down  to  his.  "Hold  me  close,  Ocky 
— close,  as  you're  doing  now — always." 


CHAPTER   XVI 
THE  ANGELS   AND    OCKY   WAFFLES 

OCKY  was  like  the  jerry-built  houses  in  which  most  of 
his  life  was  spent:  the  angels  who  made  him  had  had  good 
intentions,  but  they  had  scamped  their  work.  Consequently 
he  was  in  continual  need  of  repair. 

If  someone  had  had  time  to  spend  a  lot  of  love  about  him 
his  defects  could  have  been  patched  up  so  as  to  be  scarcely 
noticeable.  As  it  was  people  only  came  to  his  help  when 
he  was  on  the  point  of  tumbling  down.  They  shored  him 
up  hurriedly  and  left  him ;  but  no  one  cared  enough  to  give 
him  new  foundations.  The  right  kind  of  woman  could 
have  rebuilt  him  throughout — the  kind  of  woman  who 
knows  how  to  love  a  man  for  his  faults  as  well  as  for  his 
virtues.  But  few  women  are  architects  where  their  hus 
bands  are  concerned — only  those  who  marry  to  give  more 
than  they  get.  Nan  could  have  done  it ;  but  she  was  mar 
ried  to  Barrington.  Glory  could  have  done  it;  but  she  was 
only  a  little  girl. — So  the  angels  had  to  watch  their  good 
intentions  crumble. 

Ocky  knew  quite  well  what  was  the  matter  with  him — 
heart-hunger:  he  required  a  wife  who  would  sit  on  his 
knee  and  ruffle  his  hair,  and  call  him  the  funniest  old 
dear  in  the  world.  Such  a  wife  he  would  have  had  to 
carry  through  life;  her  dependence  would  have  educated 
his  strength.  A  wife  who  was  censorious  made  him  weakly 
obstinate  and  foolishly  daring.  If  he  had  been  patted  and 
hugged,  he  would  have  been  a  good  man.  His  mother  had 
done  that;  but  Jehane — ah,  well,  she  did  her  best. 

Barrington,  when  he  signed  the  check,  had  made  Ocky 

131 


i32  THE   RAFT 

promise  to  return  to  Jehane  the  thousand  pounds  she  had 
lent.  It  wasn't  her  thousand  pounds,  but  Glory's,  held  in 
trust  for  her  till  she  married.  Ocky  had  pledged  his  word 
to  give  it  back  on  one  condition — that  Jehane  was  to  be 
kept  in  ignorance  of  the  transaction.  At  the  time  he  had 
quite  intended  to  carry  out  the  agreement;  but  so  much 
can  be  done  with  a  thousand  pounds  and  an  ingenious 
mind  can  invent  so  many  excuses  for  dishonesty. 

The  morning  after  his  home-coming  he  hung-  about  the 
house  instead  of  going  to  his  office.  Already  his  methods 
of  holding  her  closely  were  getting  on  Jehane's  nerves. 
His  shiftless  easy  affection  tried  her  patience  beyond  en 
durance. 

"Aren't  you  going  yet?" 

"Presently,  old  gel.  I  want  to  have  a  good  look  at  you 
first" 

"I  think  you  ought  to  go.  You'll  have  all  your  life  to 
look  at  me — and  I've  got  my  work,  if  you  haven't." 

"All  right,  old  gel." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  'old  gel'  me  so  much.  It's  vulgar 
and  silly." 

Lighting  his  pipe,  he  strolled  into  the  hall  and  picked 
up  his  hat.  He  stood  there  fumbling  with  it.  Only  when 
she  followed  him  did  he  set  it  on  his  head,  retreating  to 
ward  the  door.  With  the  street  at  his  back,  he  turned. 

"I  say,  about  your  money." 

"For  goodness  sake,  go.  We  can  talk  about  that  at 
lunch." 

He  glanced  across  his  shoulder  at  the  sunlit  street; 
his  flight  would  be  unimpeded. 

"Don't  lose  your  wool,  old I  mean,  Jehane.  I've 

something  to  tell  you.  Had  a  nice  little  stroke  o'  luck. 
Made  thirty  pounds  for  you." 

The  flame  of  hostility  sank  at  the  mention  of  money. 
They  stood  gazing  at  one  another.  Each  was  aware  that, 
within  twelve  hours  of  peace  being  declared,  the  old  feud 
had  all  but  broken  out.  Jehane  was  frightened  by  the 
knowledge  and  self-scornful  at  her  lapse  into  temper.  Ocky 


He  was  like  a  jerry-built  house.     The  angels 
who  made  him  had  scamped  their  work. 


THE   ANGELS   AND   OCKY   WAFFLES      133 

was  congratulating  himself  on  the  dexterous  lie  with  which 
the  crash  had  been  averted. 

"Thirty  pounds !     And  you  kept  it  so  quiet !" 

He  twirled  his  mustaches  fiercely,  straddling  the  door 
mat,  all  boldness  and  bullying  self-righteousness  now. 
"This  little  boy  may  be  vulgar  sometimes,  but  he  isn't 
silly — far  from  it." 

"But  how  did  you  do  it?"  She  leant  against  him  with 
both  her  hands  on  his  arm,  trying  to  make  his  eyes  meet 
hers. 

"You  wouldn't  understand.  Watched  the  market,  yer 
know.  Sold  out  just  in  time — last  moment  in  fact." 

"You  are  clever — that's  what  I  kept  telling  Billy  and 
Nan." 

"Think  so  ?  I've  sometimes  thought  so  myself."  He  held 
his  face  away  from  hers  as  she  pushed  to  the  door  and 
put  her  arms  about  his  neck.  "And  yet  you  were  treating 
me  like  a  fool  just  now.  You're  too  ready  at  calling  me 
silly  and  vulgar.  I  get  tired  of  it."  As  he  spoke  he  had 
in  mind  the  firm  way  in  which  a  masterful  person  like 
Barrington  would  act.  "You've  got  to  stop  it,  Jehane. 
It's  the  last  time  I  mention  it." 

"I  know  I'm  unfair — unfair  to  you,  to  myself,  to  all  of 
us.  Oh,  Ocky,  be  patient  with  me;  I  do  so  want  to  be 
better." 

She  hid  her  face  against  his  shoulder  in  contrition  and 
unhappiness.  Ocky  was  a  generous  enemy.  He  found  it 
easy  to  forgive,  being  a  sinner  himself. 

"There,  there !  That's  awright,  Duchess.  Don't  cry 

about  it But  I  brought  this  matter  up  'cause  I  think 

you  ought  to  have  your  money  back." 

She  stared  at  him  in  surprise.  "Ought  to!  Why,  what 
d'you  mean?  Is  it  a  punishment?  I  don't  understand." 

He  set  his  hat  far  back  on  his  forehead. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  hurt  your  feelin's ;  but  you  don't  trust 
me.  Never  have.  It's  anxious  work  handling  the  money 
of  a  woman  who  don't  trust  you.  If  I  were  to  make  a 
mistake,  you'd  give  me  hell — I  mean,  the  warmest  time 


134 


THE 


I've  ever  had.  I'd  rather  —  much  rather  —  you  took  your 
money  back." 

He  was  drifting  away  from  her  —  already  she  had  pushed 
him  from  her.  Something  must  be  done. 

"It's  you  who  don't  trust  me,  if  you  think  that."  Her 
tones  quivered  with  reproach  as  she  said  it. 

"Then  you  want  me  to  go  on  investing  for  you  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"You're   sure   of   it?" 

"Quite,  quite  sure  of  it." 

"Then  always  remember,  I  tried  to  make  you  take  it 
back  and  you  wouldn't.  Isn't  that  so?" 

"Yes,  I  wouldn't." 

"Awright,  I'll  do  my  best;  but  I  do  it  under  protest, 
don't  forget." 

"Oh,  Ocky,  everything  that  w^e  have  we  share." 

He  kissed  her  and  passed  out  into  the  street  with 
alacrity;  she  might  get  to  considering  his  motives.  But 
at  the  garden  gate  he  hesitated,  dawdled,  and  came  back. 

"Look  here,  I  don't  want  Harrington  nosing  into  my 
affairs.  If  I  do  this  for  you  it's  between  ourselves." 

"I  shouldn't  think  of  telling  Barrington." 

"Well,  if  you  breathe  a  word  to  Nan  I'll  stop  dead,  and 
you  can  manage  your  investments  yourself." 

So  he  kept  to  the  letter  of  his  agreement  with  Barring- 
ton  —  and  he  kept  to  Jehane's  capital.  And  he  accomplished 
this  by  that  small  lie  about  the  thirty  pounds. 

When  Mr.  Playfair  had  chosen  Ocky  Waffles  to  be 
office-manager  of  the  Sandport  Real  Estate  Concern,  he 
had  shown  remarkable  cunning.  He  was  tricky  himself 
and  he  required  a  subordinate  who  was  no  more  scrupu 
lous,  yet  a  subordinate  who  could  give  to  smart  transactions 
an  appearance  of  honesty.  Mr.  Playfair's  finances  were 
scanty;  in  order  to  extend  his  credit  it  was  necessary  to 
pose  in  the  eyes  of  Sandport  as  a  civic  benefactor.  Outside 
investors  were  attracted  by  a  not  too  truthful,  but  un 
doubtedly  clever,  series  of  advertisements  for  which  Ocky 
was  responsible,  such  as  :  — 


THE    ANGELS    AND    OCKY   WAFFLES       135 

"Houses  Built  on  Sand!  We  all  remember  the  Bible 
parable  of  the  foolish  man  who  built  his  house  upon  sand : 
when  the  winds  blew  and  the  floods  came,  it  fell.  Houses 
built  at  Sandport  are  the  exception.  We  have  a  lower 
death  rate  here,  etc.,  etc.  OUR  HOUSES  STAND." 

This  was  all  very  well,  but  several  important  facts  were 
omitted  from  the  advertisements :  that  a  number  of  the 
land  lots  offered  for  sale  were  too  inaccessible  to  be  of 
practical  value  and  that  those  marked  as  sold,  which  con 
nected  them  up  with  the  town,  were  actually  still  on  the 
market ;  and,  again,  that  many  of  the  immediate  and  prom 
ised  developments,  which  would  increase  the  value  of  the 
property,  would  be  indefinitely  postponed  by  lack  of  capital ; 
and,  again,  that,  in  certain  cases,  building  would  be  impos 
sible  by  reason  of  fresh-water  springs  which  undermined 
the  sand. 

In  the  promotion  of  a  shaky  enterprise  Ocky  was  in 
his  element.  He  could  not  have  brought  the  same  clever 
ness  to  bear  on  an  honest  transaction.  The  school  of  life 
from  which  he  had  graduated  was  one  of  shifts,  evasions 
and  shams.  Even  his  experiences  with  Jehane  kept  his 
hand  expert.  He  was  so  plausible  in  his  gilding  of  falsity 
that  he  made  it  appear  like  the  truth  itself. 

But  if  Playfair  in  selecting  Ocky  had  shown  his  cunning, 
he  had  also  shown  his  lack  of  business  shrewdness,  for 
Ocky  was  not  the  person  to  trust  with  money.  And  he  had 
to  trust  him,  so  that  he  might  make  him  the  scape-goat 
if  any  infringment  of  the  law  should  be  found  out.  Some 
of  the  money  which  Barrington  had  given  Ocky  had  gone 
toward  the  straightening  of  the  Sandport  Real  Estate  Con 
cern's  accounts,  before  Playfair  should  discover  that  they 
had  been  juggled.  Ocky  had  not  meant  to  steal;  he  never 
meant  to  do  anything  improper.  He  borrowed  the  firm's 
money  to  support  his  private  speculations.  While  Jehane's 
affection  could  only  be  purchased,  he  was  continually 
tempted  to  borrow.  He  fully  intended  to  pay  back.  He 
always  fully  intended. 

The  angels  made  three  desperate  efforts  to  prevent  Ocky 


i36  THE    RAFT 

from  crumbling.  They  gave  him  Glory.  A  curious  sym 
pathy  had  grown  up  between  him  and  the  child  of  Jehane's 
first  marriage.  Perhaps  it  was  that  they  both  suffered 
from  the  unevenness  of  Jehane's  temper.  At  any  rate,  he 
much  preferred  her  to  his  own  long-lashed,  slant-eyed  little 
daughter.  Riska,  though  she  was  only  seven,  had  learnt  to 
be  both  vain  and  selfish ;  at  the  same  time,  when  there  was 
anything  she  wanted,  she  knew  how  to  be  attractive.  She 
was  her  mother's  favorite  and  belonged  to  her  mother's 
camp.  And  Madeira  Lodge  tended  to  become  more  and 
more  divided  into  two  silently  hostile  parties.  Ocky  had 
the  unpleasant  feeling  that  Riska  was  amused  by  the  out 
breaks  which  occurred,  and  turned  them  to  her  own  profit. 
Whereas  Glory 

Already  at  ten,  Glory  was  a  woman  in  her  forethought 
for  him.  She  would  follow  after  him,  hanging  up  his  coat 
and  hat,  rectifying  his  habitual  untidiness,  and  stamping 
out  the  sparks  which  were  so  often  the  beginnings  of 
domestic  conflagrations.  Her  gray  eyes  were  always  kind 
when  they  looked  at  him  and  she  was  never  impatient 
under  his  caresses.  "Poor  little  father,"  she  would  whis 
per,  putting  her  soft  arms  about  him,,  'Tm  sure  mother 
didn't  mean  to  say  that." 

And  the  angels  gave  him  his  baby-girl.  Mary  they  called 
her,  which  was  contracted  to  Moggs  as  she  grew  older. 
But  Riska  called  her  the  M.  L.  O.,  which  stood  for  Ma's 
Left  Over,  because  she  was  so  small  that  it  seemed  as 
though  Jehane  had  run  short  of  material  when  she  made 
her.  Ocky  was  very  glad  of  Moggs ;  Moggs  was  too  young 
to  judge  him.  Even  Eustace  judged  him,  saying,  "You's 
been  naughty,  Daddy ;  Mumma's  vewy  angwy."  There  was 
no  pity  in  the  little  boy's  tone  when  he  said  it — only  sor 
rowful  accusation. 

Sitting  by  Moggs's  cradle,  Ocky  would  wonder  whether 
the  day  would  come  when  she,  learning  what  a  fool  she 
had  for  a  father,  would  turn  against  him.  In  the  midst 
of  his  wondering,  she  would  wake  and  he  would  see  two 
blue  glimpses  of  heaven  laughing  up  at  him.  He  would 


THE   ANGELS   AND    OCKY   WAFFLES      137 

take  her  in  his  arms,  promising  her,  because  she  could  not 
understand  a  word  he  said,  that  for  her  sake  he  would  try 
not  to  take  so  much  "medicine."  "Medicine,"  as  a  means 
to  bolstering  up  his  courage,  was  a  habit  which  grew  upon 
him. 

Peter,  who  was  the  third  effort  of  the  angels,  noticed 
a  change  every  time  he  visited  Uncle  Waffles.  On  those 
walks  across  the  lonely  sand-hills,  Uncle  Waffles  no  longer 
pretended  that  he  drank  the  "medicine"  for  his  health. 

"You're  a  ha'penny  marvel,  Peter — that's  what  you  are. 
You  get  me  to  tell  you  everything.  It's  'cause  I  have  to 
tell  somebody,  and  I  know  you  won't  split  on  me.  Now 
about  this  'medicine';  I'm  taking  more  and  more  of  it. 
And  why?  Because  it's  my  only  way  of  being  happy. 
Before  I  married  the  Duchess  I  hardly  ever  touched  it.  I 
had  my  mother  then.  I  wish  you'd  known  her,  Peter; 
she  was  a  rare  one  for  laughing.  I  only  feel  like  laughing 
now  when  I've  taken  more  'medicine'  than's  good  for  me. 
Not  that  I  was  ever  drunk  in  my  life.  It  never  goes  to 
my  head — only  legs." 

He  had  usually  had  too  much  when  he  made  these  con 
fessions.  Peter  knew  he  had  by  the  way  in  which  he 
said,  "I  got  a  nacherly  strong  stomick.  It's  a  gif  from 
God,  I  reckon." 

Peter  kept  these  disclosures  to  himself  and  walked  his 
uncle  about  till  it  was  safe  to  return  to  Madeira  Lodge. 
Ocky  would  retire  as  soon  as  they  entered,  saying  that  he 
had  a  bad  headache.  They  became  of  such  frequent  oc 
currence  that  Jehane  began  to  be  suspicious. 

During  the  next  three  years  Ocky's  visits  to  Topbury 
were  periodic.  Barrington  could  usually  calculate  his  ad 
vent  to  a  nicety.  One  night  there  would  be  a  ring  at  the 
bell  and  Mr.  Waffles  would  enter  unheralded.  While 
others  were  present  he  would  joke  with  his  old  abandon, 
as  though  he  hadn't  a  care  in  the  world.  Then  Barrington 
would  turn  to  him,  "Shall  we  go  upstairs  to  my  study  for 
a  chat?" 

The  fiction  was  kept  up  that  Ocky's  visits  were  of  a 


i38  THE    RAFT 

friendly  and  family  nature.  The  constant  fear  at  Topbury 
was  that  the  servants  might  guess  and  the  scandal  would 
leak  out. 

When  the  study  door  had  shut  behind  them,  Barrington 
would  give  vent  to  his  indignation. 

"How  much  this  time  ?" 

"I've  had  hard  luck." 

"You  mean  you  want  me  to  clear  off  your  debts  and 
pay  back  the  money  you've  taken?" 

"It  won't  happen  again,  Billy.    Just  this  once." 

"You  said  that  last  time  and  the  time  before  that,  and 
every  time  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember.  D'you  remember 
what  I  said?" 

Before  the  anger  in  Barrington's  eyes  Ocky  began  to 
crouch.  "It  won't  happen  again.  I  swear  it.  I've  learnt 
my  lesson." 

Barrington  knew  his  answers  before  they  were  uttered. 
"I've  told  you  each  time,"  he  said,  "that,  if  you  repeated 
your  thefts,  you'd  have  to  take  the  consequences.  Last 
time  I  meant  it." 

Then  would  follow  from  Ocky  a  series  of  pleadings  and 
arguments.  That  exposure  would  entail  disgrace  all  round. 
That  he  would  be  arrested.  That  his  family  would  be 
ruined.  That  the  story  would  get  into  the  papers  and 
would  reflect  discreditably  on  Barrington.  When  these 
failed,  Ocky  would  appeal  to  their  friendship  and  the  com 
mon  memories  they  shared.  The  scene  would  usually  close 
with  a  warning  from  Barrington  that  this  was  really  the 
last  time  he  would  come  to  his  rescue ;  then  the  debts  would 
be  added  up  and  the  check  book  would  be  brought  out. 

The  threat  of  Ocky  became  a  nightmare  to  Barrington 
and  Nan — the  children  were  not  supposed  to  know  about 
it.  The  finding  of  so  much  money  was  an  intolerable 
burden,  and  they  were  never  safe  from  its  recurrence.  On 
several  occasions  Barrington  had  to  sell  some  of  his  pictures 
to  meet  these  sudden  demands  for  ready  cash.  To  add  to 
their  anxiety  was  the  fact  that  they  had  so  far  refrained 
from  telling  Jehane,  out  of  fear  that  her  resentment  against 


THE   ANGELS   AND    OCKY   WAFFLES       139 

her  husband  would  make  matters  worse.  So  her  letters 
still  arrived  punctually,  singing  his  praises  and  saying  how 
splendidly  he  was  making  progress. 

But  the  day  was  fast  approaching  when  the  shoring  up 
of  Ocky  Waffles  had  to  end.  It  ended  when  Barrington 
discovered  that  his  cousin  was  tapping  other  sources  for 
his  borrowing. 

On  a  trip  to  Oxford  with  reference  to  a  manuscript,  he 
surprised  Ocky  leaving  the  Professor's  house.  Nan,  when 
calling  on  the  Misses  Jacobite,  recognized  an  envelope  ad 
dressed  in  Ocky's  hand. 

The  next  time  he  made  his  visit  to  Topbury,  Barrington 
kept  his  promise.  Ocky  was  shown  directly  into  the  study 
without  any  preliminaries  of  family  enquiries.  He  was 
not  asked  to  sit  down.  Barrington  faced  him,  standing 
with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"I've  been  expecting  you.  My  mind's  made  up.  I  don't 
want  to  hear  what  you've  come  for  or  any  of  your  excuses. 
You've  lied  to  me.  I  know  all  about  the  Professor  and  the 
Misses  Jacobite.  Doubtless  there  are  others.  You  can  go 
to  jail  this  time,  and  I  hope  it'll  cure  you.  I've  been  a 
fool  to  try  and  save  you.  You're  rotten  throughout." 

Since  the  accidental  meeting  at  Oxford,  Ocky  had  been 
prepared  for  some  such  explosion.  He  had  fortified  him 
self  with  drink  for  the  encounter.  But  he  was  stunned 
by  this  unexpected  air  of  judicial  finality.  He  began  to 
pour  out  feverish  words.  Barrington  cut  him  short. 

"For  three  years  you've  poisoned  my  life.  You've  black 
mailed  me  with  the  fear  that  your  disgrace  would  be  made 
known.  You  yourself  have  made  that  fear  certain  by 
applying  to  my  friends.  The  scandal  can  become  public  as 
soon  as  it  likes.  That's  all  I  have  to  say.  Good-night." 

The  game  was  up.  Ocky  straightened  himself  to  meet 
the  blow.  He  ceased  to  be  cringing  and  humble.  The 
drink  helped  him  to  be  bold;  so  did  his  desperate  sense 
of  the  world's  injustice. 

"You  say  I'm  rotten  throughout.  Perhaps  I  am.  But 
who  made  me  like  that?  I  wasn't  rotten  when  we  were 


1 40  THE    RAFT 

boys  together,  and  I  wasn't  rotten  when  my  mother  was 
with  me.  Who  made  me  rotten?  You  and  clever  people 
like  you.  You  never  let  me  forget  that  I  wasn't  clever. 
You  never  did  anything  but  humiliate  me  by  reminding 
me  that  I  was  on  a  lower  level.  Your  gifts  were  always 
bitter  because  they  were  given  without  kindness,  to  get  rid 
of  me  or  in  self-defence;  and,  in  return,  I  was  expected 
to  admire  you.  Oh,  you  hard  good  man !  You  couldn't 
make  me  clever  just  by  saying  to  me,  'Be  clever,'  or  good 
just  by  saying,  'Be  good'—  You  say  I  lied  to  you.  Of 
course  I  lied — lied  as  a  child  will  to  escape  punishment. 
You  never  understood  me.  Even  before  I  went  crooked 
you  were  ashamed  of  me  because  I  hadn't  the  brains  to 
think  your  thoughts  and  to  speak  your  language.  Your  in 
tellect  despised  me.  Yes,  and  you  taught  my  wife  to 
despise  me.  Didn't  you  call  me  an  'ass'  before  company  on 
the  very  night  I  became  engaged  to  her.  She  remembered 
that  and  took  her  tone  from  you.  You  were  her  standard. 
From  the  first  she  was  discontented  with  me  because  I 
wasn't  you  and  couldn't  give  her  the  home  you'd  given 

Nan So  I  tried  to  be  rich,  because  to  be  rich  is  to  be 

clever.  I  gambled  with  what  didn't  belong  to  me  to  get 
money  to  buy  my  wife's  respect.  And  now,  because  you, 
you,  you  were  always  there  setting  the  pace  for  me  with 
your  success,  I've  lost  everything.  But  if  I'd  won  by  my 
sharp-practise,  you  and  Jehane  would  have  been  the  first 
to  say  that  I  was  a  clever  chap— • —  I  wasn't  born  bad. 
What  you  and  my  wife  have  thought  about  me  has  made  me 
what  I  am.  Damn  you.  I  wouldn't  touch  a  farthing  of 
your  charity  now.  I  want  to  go  to  the  dogs  where  both  of 
you've  sent  me  and  to  make  as  big  a  scandal  as  I  can." 

He  was  trembling  with  hysteric  anger;  his  voice  was 
thick  and  hoarse  with  passion.  His  weak  and  genial  fea 
tures  were  absurdly  in  contrast  with  the  violence  of  what  he 
said.  His  soaped  mustaches  and  white  spats  made  him  a 
comic  figure  at  any  time,  but  doubly  comic  in  the  role  of 
an  accusing  prophet. 

Barrington   eyed  him   quietly  without   the   quiver  of  a 


THE   ANGELS   AND   OCKY   WAFFLES      141 

muscle  or  the  flicker  of  a  lash.  He  had  hardened  his  heart 
beforehand  against  the  appeal  of  such  a  theatric  outburst. 
"Is  that  all?" 

Ocky  hung  his  head ;  the  fire  of  his  self-pity  was 
quenched  by  the  restrained  ridicule  of  the  man  who  ad 
dressed  him.  He  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  eyes 
with  his  tired  hands.  "That's  all." 

As  he  was  passing  into  the  hall,  Peter  looked  over  the 
banisters  and  saw  him. 

"Kay.  Kay.  Here's  dear  old  uncle,"  he  called  and  com 
menced  running  down  the  stairs. 

At  the  landing  his  father  stopped  him.  "Not  to-night, 
my  boy." 

Peter  laughed  and  tried  to  wriggle  past  him;  but  his 
father  held  him  firmly,  saying,  "I  meant  what  I  said." 

Looking  down,  Peter  saw  the  face  of  his  friend  glance 
back  at  him ;  it  was  lined  and  tortured.  Then  the  front 
door  closed  with  a  bang. 

Barrington  re-entered  his  study.  Now  that  he  had  accom 
plished  the  difficult  cruelty  his  mind  was  in  doubt.  If 

Peter  loved  Ocky,  there  must  be  some  good  left  in  him 

But  he  had  used  that  argument  with  himself  before.  As 
he  sat,  pictures  began  to  form  of  Ocky  as  he  had  been.  He 
saw  him  about  Peter's  age,  the  weakly  schoolboy  whose 
battles  he  had  had  to  fight  because  he  was  strong.  He 
recalled  that  term  when  he  had  had  to  take  him  to  the 
doctor  with  his  poisoned  hand.  He  remembered  how 
Ocky's  mother  had  always  said  of  him  that  he  was  the  most 

careful  and  dearest  son  in  the  world No,  he  hadn't 

been  always  bad. 

His  thoughts  became  unbearable ;  he  needed  approval  for 
his  act.  Stepping  out  on  to  the  landing  he  called,  "Nan, 
Nan." 

When  she  came  he  was  again  seated  in  his  chair.  The 
lights  were  out  and  a  log  of  ship's  wood,  spluttering  on  the 
coals,  burnt  violet  and  yellow,  making  the  shadows  wag 
accusing  fingers.  She  curled  herself  up  on  the  floor,  lean- 


i42  THE    RAFT 

ing  her  head  against  his  knees,  like  a  small  child  at  the  story 
hour,  before  it  goes  to  bed. 

Nan  always  brought  an  atmosphere  of  kindness  with 
her — of  innocence  and  goodness.  Her  ways  were  those  of 
a  young  girl,  who  walks  on  tiptoe  with  hands  upon  her 
breast,  listening  for  life  to  call  her.  Barrington  watched 
her  shining  head  and  how  the  fire  glinted  against  the  column 
of  her  throat.  If  Ocky  had  had  a  wife  like  Nan — 

It  was  some  time  before  she  spoke.      Then,  "Dearest?" 

"I  had  to  be  a  brute  and  I  hate  myself.  I  kicked  him 
out." 

"Do  you  think  you  did  right?" 

"If  I  didn't,  I  shouldn't  have  done  it.  The  thing  had  to 
end." 

"And  what  next?" 

"We've  got  to  think  of  Jehane  and  her  children.  I'm 
wondering  how  much  she  knows  or  suspects." 

"She'll  never  tell I  wonder  will  she  stand  by  him?" 

There  was  silence. 

Barrington  spoke.  "Ocky  hinted  at  something  to-night. 
It  might  be  true — something  that  I  never  thought  about.  It 
explains  those  letters  of  Jehane's.  It  explains  why  they've 
never  got  on  together.  I've  always  said  that  a  little  love 
would  have  made  Ocky  a  better  man." 

"Dear,  what  was  it?" 

"It  dates  a  long  way  back.  He  said  that  Jehane  had 
made  our  home  and  my  love  for  you  the  standard  of  what 
she  expected  from — 

"I  understand.  And  it  is  true,  Billy.  She  wanted  a  man 
like  you  from  the  first." 

Silence. 

Nan  said,  "Once  she  used  to  talk  about  the  penal  servi 
tude  of  spinsterhood." 

"And  now,"  said  Barrington,  "she'll  have  to  learn  about 
the  penal  servitude  of  marriage.  Whatever  happens,  un 
less  he  ill-treats  her,  he'll  be  her  husband  to  the  end." 

"But But  can't  we  stop  this  dreadful  something?" 

Barrington  stooped  and  took  her  hand. 


THE    ANGELS    AND    OCKY   WAFFLES       143 

"Little  woman,  we've  been  trying  to  stop  it  all  these 
years.  We  can't  stop  it ;  we  can  only  postpone  it  and  give 
him  more  time  to  drag  Jehane  and  the  children  lower 
down.  We've  reached  the  point  where  things  have  got 
to  be  at  their  worst  before  they  can  grow  better.  It's  a 
question  now  of  how  many  of  them  we  can  rescue.  Ocky 
has  to  be  allowed  to  sink  for  the  sake  of  the  rest." 

Nan's  forehead  puckered  at  the  cruelty  of  such  logic. 
"But  I  don't  understand.  It  seems  so  horrible  that  we 
should  sit  here,  with  a  fire  burning  and  everything  comfort 
able,  saying  things  like  that." 

"It  is  horrible.  It's  so  horrible  that,  if  I  were  to  give  him 
everything  I  have,  he'd  still  go  to  the  devil.  He's  a  drown 
ing  man  and  he'll  drag  down  everyone  who  tries  to  drag 
him  out." 

She  clung  to  her  husband  aghast  at  this  painful  glimpse 

of  reality.     "But  I  still  don't  understand.    Why Why 

should  he  be  like  that?    He's  kind,  and  he's  gentle,  and  he 
makes  children  love  him." 

"You  want  to  know?  And  you  won't  be  hurt  if  I  say 
something  very  terrible?" 

"I  don't  mind  being  hurt — I'm  that  already." 

"I  think  it's  because  of  Jehane — because  of  what  she's 
left  undone.  She  never  brought  any  song  to  her  marriage — 
never  made  any  joy  for  him  or  happiness." 

"And  because  of  that  he's  to — 

"Yes.  Because  of  that  he's  to  be  allowed  to  go  under. 
It's  chivalry,  not  justice.  At  sea  one  saves  the  women  and 
children  first.  He's  a  man." 

In  quick  revulsion  from  this  ugliness  of  other  people's 
sordidness,  he  bent  over  her,  brushing  his  lips  against  her 
cheek  and  hair.  "Shall  I  ever  grow  tired  of  kissing  you, 
I  wonder,  my  own  little  Nan  ?" 

And  so,  in  one  another's  arms,  for  a  moment  they  shut 
out  the  memory  of  tragedy. 

But  the  angels  had  not  done  with  Ocky  Waffles  yet. 


CHAPTER   XVII 
A  HOUSE   BUILT   ON   SAND 

THERE  was  one  more  letter  from  Jehane.  She  wrote  that 
Ocky  had  just  returned  from  London,  where  he  had  been 
on  important  business.  She  understood  that  he  had  been 
too  hurried  to  be  able  to  visit  Topbury.  He  was  working 
very  hard — too  hard  for  his  health.  He  was  over- 
ambitious.  While  she  was  writing  he  had  come  in  to  tell 
her  that  he  was  off  again  to  London.  Then  followed 
domestic  chatter :  how  Glory  was  taking  music-lessons  so 
that  she  might  play  to  her  father  when  she  grew  older ;  and 
how  Eustace  had  a  new  tricycle;  and  how  Riska  already 
had  an  eye  for  the  boys.  This  was  the  last  letter,  very 
foolish  and  very  brave — then  silence  and  suspense. 

The  days  dragged  by.  Nights  stayed  long  and  the  sun 
rose  late.  In  the  mornings  the  fields,  which  lay  in  front 
of  the  Terrace,  were  blanketed  in  sulphurous  mist  through 
which  bare  trees  loomed  spectral.  Railings  and  walls  and 
pavements  were  damp  as  though  fear  had  caused  them  to 
sweat. 

All  night  Nan  and  Barrington,  lying  side  by  side,  feigned 
sleep  or  slept  restlessly.  Both  were  afraid  to  voice  their 
dread  lest,  when  spoken,  it  should  seem  more  actual.  Once, 
when  a  hansom  jingled  out  of  the  distance  and  halted  out 
side  their  house,  they  started  up  together  listening.  The 
fare  alighted  and  walked  a  few  doors  down;  again  they 
drew  breath. 

"Why,  Nan,  little  lady,  did  I  wake  you  ?" 

"No,  I  was  awake.  I  thought —  I  thought  it  was  I 
who  had  made  you  rouse." 

"I've  not  slept  a  wink  since  I  lay  down." 

144 


A    HOUSE    BUILT   ON    SAND  145 

"Neither  have  I." 

As  he  clasped  her  in  the  dark,  he  could  feel  her  trem 
bling.  He  held  her  tightly  to  him,  laying  his  face  against 
hers  on  the  pillow.  Again  they  both  were  listening. 

"What  makes  you  so  frightened?" 

He  whispered  the  question. 

"Always  thinking,  always  thinking of  the  future 

and  what  may  happen." 

She  commenced  to  sob,  pressing  her  forehead  against 
his  breast. 

He  tried  to  soothe  her.  "You  mustn't,  Pepperminta. 
You  mustn't  really ;  it  hurts.  I'll  think  for  you.  I  always 
have.  Now  close  your  eyes  and  get  some  rest." 

And  she  closed  her  eyes  and  lay  very  tense.  Hours  and 
hours  later  London  began  to  growl.  Presently  the  door 
of  the  servants'  bedroom  opened;  the  stairs  creaked;  the 
house  was  filled  with  stealthy  sounds.  At  last  she  drowsed. 

When  her  husband  had  tiptoed  out  to  his  bath,  she  rose 
hastily  and  commenced  to  dress.  She  must  get  down  before 
him.  He  must  be  spared  if  the  message  was  there;  she 
must  read  it  first. 

The  dining-room  was  in  dusk  these  November  mornings. 
At  the  end  of  the  room  the  fire  burnt  red  and  before  it 
Kay  and  Peter  warmed  their  hands.  Not  until  she  had 
run  through  the  letters  did  she  greet  them.  Then,  for  their 
sakes,  she  tried  to  appear  cheerful.  Barrington,  on  enter 
ing,  cast  one  swift  look  in  her  direction  and  realized  that 
the  end  was  not  yet.  Absentmindedly  they  took  their 
places  at  the  table,  scarcely  thankful  for  this  respite  from 
certainty. 

The  children  soon  apprehended  that  all  was  not  well; 
their  high  clear  voices  were  hushed — they  spoke  in  whis 
pers.  Peter  was  fourteen ;  he  had  guessed  the  meaning  of 
blank  spaces  on  the  walls  from  which  some  of  the  favorite 
pictures  had  vanished.  The  Dutch  landscape  by  Cuyp  was 
still  there  above  the  blue  couch,  against  the  background  of 
dark  oak-paneling.  Across  its  glass  the  flickering  reflec 
tion  of  the  fire  danced,  lighting  up  the  placid  burgher  as  he 


I46  THE    RAFT 

walked  with  his  ladies  on  the  bank  of  the  gray  canal. 
Peter  noticed  how  his  father's  eyes  rested  on  it — a  sure 
sign  that  he  was  troubled. 

Almost  by  stealth  Peter  would  push  back  his  chair  and 
nudge  his  sister.  Miss  Effie  Jacobite  gave  her  lessons  in 
the  mornings ;  on  his  way  to  school  he  had  to  leave  Kay 
at  her  house.  Shouldering  his  satchel,  he  would  lead  her 
out  into  the  misty  streets;  then  at  last  he  would  dare  to 
raise  his  voice  in  laughter. 

At  the  departure  of  the  children,  Barrington  would  break 
off  from  the  train  of  thought  he  had  been  following,  and 
was  incessantly  following:  had  he  done  right  by  Ocky? 
The  door  would  bang;  through  the  long  dark  day  Nan 
would  sit  alone,  and  speculate  and  wonder. 

What  was  happening?  Had  the  smash  been  postponed? 
Had  Ocky  wriggled  round  the  corner  by  borrowing  secret 
ly  from  other  people's  friends?  Billy  searched  the  faces 
of  his  business  acquaintances  and  Nan  the  faces  of  their 
Topbury  circle  in  an  effort  to  make  them  tell. 

Toward  afternoon  the  fog  would  roll  up  from  the  city, 
dense  and  yellow.  Footsteps  on  the  Terrace  would  come 
suddenly  out  of  nowhere ;  their  makers  were  shadows. 
Nan,  rising  uneasily,  would  go  to  the  window;  they  might 
be  footsteps  of  pursuers  or  of  bringers  of  bad  tidings. 
Even  Grace's  policeman  filled  her  with  panic  when  he 
paused  for  an  instant  outside  the  house.  His  tread  was  the 
tread  of  Justice,  ponderous  and  unescapable. 

With  the  return  of  the  children  her  oppression  lifted. 
Later  Billy's  key  would  grate  in  the  latch.  She  was  in 
the  hall  to  meet  him  before  he  had  crossed  the  threshold. 
"Any  news?"  The  servants  must  not  hear  her;  she  spoke 
beneath  her  breath. 

"Nothing.     Nothing  yet." 

The  children  no  longer  called  to  one  another  as  they 
went  about  their  play.  They  tiptoed  and  looked  up  anx 
iously  when  addressed.  No  urging  was  necessary  to  send 
them  to  bed — bed  was  escape  to  a  less  ominous  world. 

Muffled,  muffled!     Everything  was  cloaked  and  muffled. 


A   HOUSE    BUILT   ON    SAND  147 

As  Peter  put  two  and  two  together,  pain  grew  into  his 
eyes ;  even  when  others  seemed  to  have  forgotten,  the 
expression  in  his  eyes  was  judging. 

Only  Romance  was  unaffected  by  the  sense  of  forebod 
ing.  The  servants  felt  it  and  discussed  it  in  the  kitchen, 
wondering  whether  the  master  was  losing  money.  But 
Romance,  with  cat-like  self-satisfaction,  went  on  bearing 
kittens  and  so  did  her  daughter,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who 
came  by  her  name  through  an  accident  regarding  her  sex. 

A  month  had  gone  by. 

"Should  I  write  to  Jehane?"  she  asked  her  husband. 

"I  wouldn't.  If  you  do,  we  shall  have  Ocky  back  on  our 
hands.  Perhaps  he  may  pull  things  together  now  that  he 
knows  that  he  stands  by  himself.  If  he  does,  it'll  make  a 
man  of  him.  Anyhow,  if  she  finds  out  and  needs  our  help, 
she'll  send  for  us." 

But  the  silence  proved  too  much  for  Nan.  One  morn 
ing,  on  the  spur  of  the  impulse,  she  packed  a  bag,  left  a 
note  for  her  husband  and  set  off  for  Sandport.  On  the 
journey  through  sodden  country  and  mud-splashed  towns, 
she  fought  for  courage,  straining  out  into  eternity  to  pluck 
the  hem  of  God's  mantle  which,  when  her  faith  had  touched, 
was  continually  withdrawn  beyond  reach  of  her  hand. 

She  had  rung  the  bell  and  stood  waiting  on  the  steps  of 
Madeira  Lodge.  No  one  answered.  She  thought  she 
heard  the  pit-a-pat  of  feet  on  the  other  side  of  the  door. 
She  rang  again  and  took  a  pace  back  to  glance  up  at  the 
front  of  the  house.  As  she  did  so,  she  saw  a  curtain  move 
before  a  window — move  almost  imperceptibly.  A  minute 
later  the  door  was  flung  open  by  Jehane ;  Nan  saw  the 
children  grouped  behind  her  in  the  passage. 

"Well?" 

The  tone  of  her  voice  was  flat  and  unfriendly. 

"I  thought  I'd  come  and  see  you,  Janey.  Only  made  up 
my  mind  this  morning." 

"Did  you?    What  made  you  do  that ?" 

Nan  flushed  and  her  voice  faltered.  She  had  not  ex 
pected  this  hardness  and  defiance.  She  had  come  full  of 


I48  THE    RAFT 

pity.  "I  came  because  I  was  nervous.  You  hadn't  written 
for  more  than  a  month.  I  hope I  hope, " 

"Come  inside,"  said  Jehane.  "I  can't  talk  to  you  out 
there.  You  can  stop  your  hoping." 

Once  inside,  the  appearance  of  the  house  told  its  story. 
It  looked  bare.  From  the  sideboard  the  silver — mostly 
presents  of  Jehane's  first  marriage — had  vanished.  The 
walls  were  stripped  of  all  ornaments  which  had  a  negotiable 
value.  In  the  drawing-room  there  was  an  empty  space 
where  there  had  once  been  a  piano.  Only  the  carefully 
curtained  windows  kept  up  the  pretence  of  trim  prosperity. 
Jehane  led  Nan  from  room  to  room  without  a  word  and 
the  children,  shuffling  behind,  followed. 

"Now  you've  seen  for  yourself,"  she  said,  "and  a  nice 
fool  you  must  think  me  after  my  letters.  I've  lied  for 
him  and  sold  my  jewelry  for  him.  I've  done  without  ser 
vants.  I've  crept  out  at  night  like  a  thief  to  the  pawn 
brokers,  when  there  wasn't  any  money  and  there  were  debts 
to  be  settled.  And  the  last  thing  I  heard  before  he  left 
was  that  he'd  stolen  the  thousand  pounds  I  lent  him. 
And  this this  is  what  I  get." 

"Before  he  left?" 

"A  month  ago,  after  my  last  letter  to  you.  You  needn't 
pretend  to  be  surprised,  because  you're  not.  You  suspected. 
That's  what  brought  you." 

Nan  felt  faint  with  the  shock  of  the  realization.  She 
tottered  and  stretched  out  her  hands  to  save  herself.  Glory 
ran  forward  and  put  her  arm  round  her.  "Dear  Auntie." 

Nan  drew  Glory's  head  against  her  shoulder,  sobbing. 
"Oh  my  dear,  my  poor  little  girl !" 

Jehane  looked  on  unmoved,  merely  saying  in  her  hard 
flat  voice,  "If  there's  any  crying  or  fainting  to  be  done, 
seems  to  me  I'm  the  person  to  do  it.  But  I'm  past  all 
that." 

Nan  quieted  herself.  "It  so  shocked  me.  I — I  didn't 
mean  to  make  a  fuss.  But  won't  you  tell  me  how  it  all  hap 
pened  ?" 


A    HOUSE    BUILT   ON    SAND  149 

"Nothing  to  tell.  It's  just  Ocky  with  his  lies  and  prom 
ises." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that  before  the  children  about  their 
father." 

"I'll  say  what  I  like;  they're  my  children.  They've  seen 
everything-." 

Nan  looked  round  and  saw  sympathy  only  in  the  eyes 
of  Glory.  Moggs,  balancing  herself  by  her  mother's  skirts, 
piped  up  and  spoke  for  the  rest,  "Farver's  a  naughty  man." 
Even  her  mother  was  startled  by  the  candor  of  this  en 
dorsement  ;  turning  sharply,  she  caused  Moggs  to  tumble  on 
the  floor  with  a  bump.  Moggs  began  to  yell. 

Grateful  for  a  diversion  in  any  form,  Nan  knelt  and 
comforted  the  little  girl.  Jehane  watched  her  indifferently, 
as  though  all  capacity  for  kindness  had  left  her. 

When  peace  was  restored,  Nan  said,  "You're  coming 
home  with  me,  all  of  you." 

"We're  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"My  husband  may  return.  If  he  doesn't,  I  must  stay 
here  and  keep  up  appearances  till  he  gets  safely  out  of 

the  country.  Heaven  knows  what  he's  done ! And  it's 

likely  that  I'd  come  to  Topbury  to  be  laughed  at !  You 
may  want  me,  but  what  about  Billy?  You've  both  known 
this  for  a  month,  and  you  couldn't  even  send  me  a  line. 
Come  to  Topbury !  No,  thank  you  !" 

There  was  so  much  to  be  explained  and  explanations 
were  so  tangled.  Nan  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  make  a 
clean  breast.  When  she  told  Jehane  of  the  years  of  bor 
rowing  that  had  been  going  on  behind  her  back,  she  was 
justifiably  angry. 

"So  you  knew  all  the  time !  And  for  three  years  it  was 
practically  you  and  Billy  who  were  running  this  house! 
And  you  kept  me  in  ignorance !  I  must  say,  you've  a 
queer  way  of  showing  friendship!" 

"We  did  it  because — because  we  were  afraid,  if  you  knew, 
you  wouldn't  love  him.  And  then  matters  would  have 
been  worse." 


I5o  THE    RAFT 

"Love  him !  I've  not  loved  him  since  we  marrietl.  He 
started  playing  the  fool  directly  after  the  wedding  before 
the  train  moved  out  of  the  station.  I  knew  then  that  I'd 
have  to  be  ashamed  of  him  always.  I  knew  what  I'd 
done  for  myself.  He  killed  my  love  within  an  hour  of  mak 
ing  me  his  wife But  how  you  must  have  amused 

yourselves,  knowing  what  you  did,  when  you  received  my 
letters  about  his  getting  on  in  the  world — his  progress! 
My  God!  how  you  must  have  laughed,  the  two  of  you! 
Every  time  he  gave  me  a  present  it  was  your  money." 

All  this  before  the  children ! 

She  threw  herself  down  on  a  couch  and  gave  way  to 
hysterics,  wrenched  with  sobs,  screaming  with  unhappy 
merriment,  clutching  at  her  breast  and  throwing  back  her 
head.  The  children  began  to  cry,  hiding  in  corners  of  the 
room,  terrified.  Only  Glory  kept  her  nerve  and,  following 
Nan's  directions,  fetched  water  to  bathe  her  mother's  face 
and  hands. 

When  the  insane  laughter  had  spent  itself,  Jehane  lay 
still  with  eyes  closed,  panting.  Shame  took  the  place 
of  harshness.  Nan  asked  whether  there  were  any  stimu 
lants  in  the  house ;  when  a  half-emptied  bottle  was  brought 
from  the  cupboard,  Jehane  gesticulated  it  away  with  dis 
gust.  "I  couldn't  touch  it.  It's  Ocky's."  It  was  all  that 
was  left  of  his  "medicine." 

Nan  persuaded  Glory  to  take  the  children  out  of  the 
room.  She  seated  herself  by  the  couch  in  silence,  stroking 
Jehane's  forehead. 

Presently  the  bitter  woman's  eyes  opened.  They  re 
garded  her  companion  steadily,  with  an  expression  of  sad 
wonder.  "You're  still  beautiful.  I'm  old  already." 

Nan  began  to  protest  in  little  birdlike  whispers ;  she  was 
so  nervous  lest  she  should  give  offence.  She  was  inter 
rupted.  "Even  your  voice  is  young.  People  who  don't 

want  to  love  you  have  to And  I  always  longed  to  be 

loved."  She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  brushing  back 
the  false  hair.  "You've  had  the  goodness  of  life ;  I've  had 
the  falseness.  Things  aren't  fair." 


A    HOUSE    BUILT   ON    SAND  151 

"No,  they're  not  fair,"  Nan  assented.  "God's  been  hard 
on  you,  poor  old  girl." 

"God !  Oh,  yes !"  Jehane  spoke  the  words  gropingly, 
as  though  recollecting.  "Ah,  yes  !  God  !  He  and  I  haven't 
been  talking  to  one  another  lately.  The  cares  of  this  world 

the  cares  of  this  world What  is  that  passage  I'm 

trying  to  remember?" 

"It's  about  the  sower  who  sows  the  good  seed,  but  the 
cares  of  this  world  rise  up  and  choke  it  unless  it  falls 
on  fruitful  land.  It's  something-  like  that." 

Jehane  looked  at  Nan  vaguely,  only  half-comprehending. 
"Fruitful  land !  That's  the  difficulty.  I  was  never  fruit 
ful  land Tell  me,  why  did  you  marry  Billy?" 

"Why?     I  never  thought  about  it." 

"Think  about  it  now.     Why  was  it?" 

"I  suppose  because  I  loved  him  and  wanted  to  help 
him." 

Jehane's  elbow  slipped  from  under  her.  She  lay  back, 
staring  at  the  ceiling,  looking  gaunt  and  faded,  as  though 
she  had  passed  through  a  long  illness.  "To  help  him ! 
When  I  loved  I  wanted  to  be  helped.  God's  not  been  hard 
on  me,  little  Nan ;  I've  been  hard  on  myself.  I'm  a  hard 

woman.  I've  got  what  I  deserved.  And  Ocky He 

was  a  fool.  He  had  no  mind — never  read  anything.  He 
was  clumsy  and  liked  vulgar  people  best.  But,  perhaps, 
he's  my  doing.  Perhaps  !" 

Seeing  that  she  had  grown  passive,  Nan  stole  out  to  give 
the  children  their  supper  and  to  put  them  to  bed.  That 
night,  the  first  time  since  Cassingland,  she  and  Jehane 
slept  together.  The  light  had  been  put  out  for  some  time 
and  Nan  was  growing  drowsy,  when  Jehane  spoke. 

"Madeira  Lodge !  It's  funny.  A  house  built  on  sand ! 

A  house  built  on That's  what  we  came  here  to  do  for 

other  people ;  we've  done  it  for  ourselves.  O  God,  spare 
my  little  children,  my — 

Nan  took  her  in  her  arms  and  soothed  her. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
PETER   TO   THE    RESCUE 

IT  was  all  up.  A  warrant  was  out  for  the  arrest  of 
Ocky.  Accusers  came  forward  from  all  directions — people 
whom  glib  promises  had  kept  silent  and  people  who  had 
kept  themselves  silent  because  they  were  friends  of  Bar- 
rington.  Now  that  silence  had  lost  its  virtue,  they  shouted. 
Their  numbers  and  the  noise  they  made  were  a  revelation 
and  testimonial  of  a  sort  to  Ocky's  enterprising  character. 
He  must  have  been  skating  over  thin  ice  for  years.  He 
had  almost  established  a  record.  Such  a  performance,  so 
dexterous  and  long  protracted,  had  required  a  kind  of  gay 
courage  that  is  rarely  given  to  honest  men.  And  Ocky 
was  honest  by  tradition,  if  not  in  practice.  His  nerve  was 
admirable.  No  wonder  he  drank. 

He  was  wanted  on  many  charges.  There  were  checks 
which  he  had  cashed  through  tradesmen,  drawn  on  banks 
where  he  had  no  effects.  With  his  habitual  folly,  he  had 
left  tracks  by  negotiating  some  of  these  in  London  since  his 
flight,  using  letters  of  a  family  nature  from  Barrington  to 
inspire  confidence.  These  began  to  be  presented  five  weeks 
after  his  departure  from  Sandport.  It  seemed  as  though 
he  had  been  doing  himself  well  and  his  supplies  were  ex 
hausted.  His  name  found  its  way  into  the  papers,  largely 
because  he  was  Barrington's  cousin.  So  everything  became 
public. 

The  day  before  the  reports  occurred  in  the  press,  a  man 
of  his  appearance  had  enquired  at  Cook's  in  Ludgate  Circus 
about  the  exchange  rates  for  French  money.  The  Channel 
boats  had  been  watched  in  consequence;  but  he  must  have 
taken  warning  and  altered  his  plans. 

152 


PETER   TO   THE   RESCUE  153 

"He's  ineffectual  even  in  his  sinning,"  said  Barrington. 
"Why  couldn't  the  fool  have  skipped  the  country  earlier 
and  saved  us  the  humiliation  of  a  trial?" 

The  Sandport  Real  Estate  Concern  had  gone  into  bank 
ruptcy.  Its  affairs  would  not  bear  inspection.  Mr.  Play- 
fair  had  vanished  with  all  the  odds  and  ends  that  Ocky  had 
spared.  Both  of  them  were  badly  wanted.  So  Jehane's 
scornful  loyalty  in  stopping  on  at  Madeira  Lodge,  that  her 
husband's  retreat  might  be  covered,  no  longer  served  any 
good  purpose.  Moreover,  every  thing  in  the  house  was 
seized  by  creditors — even  her  own  possessions  were  no 
longer  hers  because  they  had  passed  as  Ocky's.  She  and 
her  children  found  themselves  penniless. 

Her  father,  when  applied  to,  presented  her  with  a  list  of 
the  sums  he  had  already  advanced,  unbeknown  to  her.  He 
laid  pedantic  emphasis  on  his  early  objections  to  the  hurry 
of  her  second  marriage.  She  had  always  been  wayward. 
He  offered  to  take  Glory  and  Riska  to  live  with  him  for  a 
time,  but  couldn't  put  up  with  the  younger  children.  Her 
independence  had  been  her  undoing ;  it  must  be  her  making 
now.  She  must  work.  The  first  Homeric  scholar  in 
Europe  couldn't  afford  to  have  his  oeace  of  mind 
disturbed.  He  was  sorry. 

Against  her  will  Jehane  was  forced  to  accept  the  charity 
of  the  man  whom  she  both  loved  and  hated.  She  came  to 
him  a  fortnight  before  Christmas  with  her  four  children — 
it  was  the  first  Christmas  she  had  spent  at  Topbury  since 
her  engagement  to  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Waffles. 

Barrington's  relations  with  'Jehane  were  painfully 
strained.  He  hated  the  intrusion  of  her  sordid  problems  on 
the  sheltered  quiet  of  his  family.  He  was  aware  that  she 
had  grown  careless  of  refinement  in  the  vulgarity  of  her 
experience.  She  was  no  longer  the  Oxford  don's  daugh 
ter,  soft  in  speech  and  lively  eyed,  but  a  woman  inclined  to 
be  loud-voiced  and  nagging.  He  blamed  her,  was  sorry 
for  her  and  wanted  to  be  kind  to  her ;  but  it  was  difficult  to 
be  kind  to  Jehane  when  her  feelings  were  raw  and 
wounded.  She  refused  pity  and  was  as  hurt  by  the  com- 


I54  THE    RAFT 

fort  which  he  permitted  her  to  share  as  if  it  were  something 
of  which  he  had  robbed  her.  She  spoke  continually  of 
"my  poor  children,"  betraying  jealousy  for  the  lot  of  Kay 
and  Peter. 

An  additional  cause  of  grievance  was  found  in  Eustace ; 
he  was  an  amiable  mild  boy,  dull  and  fond  of  being  petted, 
the  miniature  of  his  father.  Barrington  knew  he  was  un 
just,  but  his  repulsion  was  physical:  he  could  not  restrain 
his  dislike  of  the  child  whose  sole  offence  was  his  strong 
resemblance  to  the  man  who  had  caused  this  misery. 
Jehane  was  cut  to  the  quick;  being  forced  to  be  humble, 
she  sulked. 

Nan  tried  to  play  the  part  of  peacemaker.  She  was 
proud  of  the  nobility  of  her  husband ;  she  understood  his 
occasional  flashes  of  temper.  He  was  overburdened ;  he 
was  doing  far  more  for  Jehane  than  she  had  any  right  to 
expect.  He  had  made  himself  responsible  for  all  the  swin 
dles  in  which  his  name  had  been  employed  as  an  induce 
ment.  To  fulfil  these  obligations  he  was  sacrificing  many 
of  his  art-treasures ;  even  the  landscape  by  Cuyp  was  threat 
ened. 

And  she  also  understood  Jehane's  predicament.  She 
was  too  gentle  to  resent  her  seeming  ingratitude.  Looking 
back  over  the  long  road  from  girlhood,  she  marveled  at  her 
friend's  fortitude — that  she  could  still  lift  up  her  head 
proudly  and,  in  spite  of  bludgeonings,  plan  for  the  future. 
Jehane  might  scold  and  grumble  to  her  when  Barrington's 
back  was  turned;  it  made  no  difference  to  her  unvarying 
tenderness. 

And  there  were  times  when  Jehane  was  ashamed  of  her 
ferocity  and,  laying  her  head  on  Nan's  shoulder,  confessed 
her  folly. 

'Tm  cruel,"  she  wept ;  "all  the  sweetness  in  me  is  turned 
to  acid.  I  shall  grow  worse  and  worse,  till  at  last  I  shall 
be  quite  impenitent.  I  can't  help  it.  Life  won't  grow 

easier  for  me If  you  told  the  truth,  you'd  write  over 

me,  'Here  lies  a  mother  who  loved  too  much  and  a  wife 
who  loved  too  little.'  I'm  spoiling  my  children  with  my 


PETER   TO   THE   RESCUE  155 

fondness  and  filling  their  heads  with  vanity And  I 

shall  often  hurt  you,  little  Nan.  But  you'll  stick  by  me, 
won't  you?" 

Barrington  was  suspicious  that  violent  scenes  took  place 
in  his  absence;  manlike,  he  was  irritated  and  could  not 
comprehend  their  necessity.  He  was  furious  that  his  wife 
should  be  upset  and  forbade  the  name  of  Ocky  to  be  men 
tioned  in  his  presence. 

Peter  overheard  much  of  the  abuse  which  was  showered 
on  his  uncle  by  both  Jehane  and  her  children.  His  eyes 
became  flames  when  harsh  things  were  said ;  quarrels  were 
the  result.  The  quarrels  were  for  the  most  part  with 
Riska.  He  could  not  believe  that  anyone  he  loved  was 
really  bad.  Glory  shared  his  grieved  anger;  a  defensive 
alliance  in  the  interest  of  Ocky  was  formed  between  her  and 
himself.  It  was  the  first  compact  he  had  ever  made  with 
Glory.  But  she  was  too  mild  for  Peter — too  much  of  a 
Saint  Teresa  and  not  enough  of  a  Joan  of  Arc.  Glory  knew 
that  she  could  not  be  valiant ;  in  secret  she  cried  her  heart 
out  because  he  despised  her  cowardice. 

Barrington  might  forbid  the  mention  of  Ocky's  name, 
but  outside  on  the  Terrace  there  was  a  perpetual  reminder. 
A  tall  man,  with  a  straight  back  and  wooden  way  of  walk 
ing,  watched  the  house.  He  pretended  not  to  be  watching 
and,  when  anyone  saw  him  from  the  window,  would  stroll 
carelessly  away  as  though  he  were  just  taking  a  breath  of 
air;  but  he  always  returned.  He  got  so  much  on  Barring- 
ton's  nerves  that  he  finally  made  up  his  mind  to  accost 
him. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  always  hanging  round?  I 
won't  have  it." 

The  man,  who  had  tried  to  avoid  him,  finding  himself 
cornered,  answered  respectfully  "Sorry,  sir.  H'it's  or 
ders." 

"But  what  are  you?    A  plain-clothes  man?" 

"That's  not  for  me  to  say,  sir." 

Barrington  slipped  him  a  sovereign,  saying,  "Come,  speak 


156  THE   RAFT 

out.  You're  safe  with  me.  I  won't  tell.  You  know,  it's 
a  bit  thick,  having  you  out  here.  The  ladies  are  upset." 

The  man  scratched  his  head.  "It  ain't  the  ladies  I'm 
after.  It's  'im.  You've  got  'is  missis  and  kids  in  there. 
'E  was  allaws  fond  of  'is  kids,  so  they  tell  us.  We  calkilate 
that  since'e  cawn't  get  out  o'  the  country,  'e'll  turn  up  'ere 
sooner  or  later.  These  things  is  allaws  painful  for  the  fam 
ily.  That  chap  was  a  mug;  'e  should  'a  planned  things 
better." 

Harrington  thought  for  a  minute.  Then  he  asked,  "Are 
you  a  married  man?" 

"Married,  and  five  nippers,  Gawd  bless  'em." 

"Well,  look  here,  put  it  to  yourself:  how'd  you  like  to 
have  your  wife  made  ill  and  your  kiddies  sent  frightened  to 
bed,  because  a  stranger  was  always  staring  in  at  their  win 
dows  ?" 

"Shouldn't  like  it.  I'd  get  damned  peevish,  I  can  tell 
yer." 

"Good.  Then  you'll  understand  what  I'm  going  to  say. 
I'm  a  gentleman  and  you  can  trust  my  word.  If  the  man 
you're  after  comes  here,  I'll  hold  him  for  you.  In  return 
I  want  you  to  be  a  little  less  obvious  in  your  detective  work. 
I  can't  have  my  family  scared.  Go  further  away,  and  watch 
from  a  distance.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

Just  then  Barrington  turned  and  saw  Peter  standing 
with  his  satchel  across  his  shoulder.  How  much  had  he 
heard?  He  was  awkward  under  his  boy's  eyes;  he  often 
wondered  what  thoughts  went  on  behind  them. 

"Run  along,  Peter.    I'll  be  with  you  in  a  second." 

Then  to  the  man,  "Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"It  ain't  reg'lar,"  said  the  man. 

"But  under  the  circumstances,  you'll  do  it.  I'm  not  try 
ing  to  interfere  with  your  duty." 

"My  orders  were .  Awright,  sir,  'cause  of  the  wife 

and  kids  I'll  do  it." 

That  night  Peter  thought  matters  out.  It  was  he  and 
his  Uncle  Waffles  against  the  world.  He  did  not  accuse 
anybody,  neither  his  father,  nor  Aunt  Jehane ;  but  there  was 


PETER   TO   THE   RESCUE  157 

a  mistake  somewhere.  They  did  not  understand.  What 
ever  Uncle  Waffles  had  done,  to  Peter  he  was  still  a  good 
man. 

Peter  crept  out  of  bed  and  across  the  landing"  to  a  win 
dow  in  the  front  of  the  house.  He  peered  into  the  black 
ness.  By  the  railing  of  the  fields,  at  a  point  mid-way  be 
tween  two  gas-lamps  where  shadows  lay  deepest,  he  could 
see  a  figure  watching.  He  must  save  Uncle  Waffles  from 
that. 

School  had  broken  up.  It  was  the  twenty-fourth  of 
December.  There  was  still  no  news  of  Ocky.  In  their 
anxiety  they  had  almost  forgotten  that  to-morrow  would 
be  Christmas. 

That  morning  Barrington  dawdled  over  his  breakfast, 
postponing  his  departure  for  business.  His  wife  glanced 
down  the  table  at  him,  trying  to  conjecture  the  motive  of 
his  dallying.  Presently  he  signaled  her  with  his  eyes,  rais 
ing  his  brows  at  the  children.  When  she  had  excused  them, 
he  turned  to  her  and  Jehane.  "Whatever's  happened  or  is 
going  to  happen,  we  don't  want  to  rob  the  kiddies  of  their 
pleasure,  do  we?  We've  got  to  pull  ourselves  together  and 
pretend  to  forget  and  try  to  be  cheerful.  What  d'you  say, 
Nan  ?" 

"I'd  thought  of  that.  But  I  didn't  like  to  mention  it. 
Janey  and  I,  working  together,  can  get  things  ready." 

"All  right,  then.     And  I'll  see  to  the  presents." 

He  rose  and  laid  his  hand  on  Jehane's  shoulder.  "Come, 
Jehane,  things  are  never  so  bad  but  what  they  may  mend. 
I've  not  always  been  considerate  of  you.  Let's  be  friends." 

It  was  one  of  those  patched-up  truces  which,  like  mile 
stones,  were  to  dot  the  road  of  their  latent  enmity. 

Kay's  and  Peter's  money-boxes  were  brought  out;  their 
savings  for  the  year  were  counted.  Nan  gave  to  Jehane's 
children  an  equal  sum  with  which  to  go  out  and  buy  pres 
ents.  Peter  was  kept  running  all  morning  on  errands;  in 
the  afternoon  he  was  busy  decorating  with  mistletoe  and 
holly.  The  preparations  were  so  belated  that  everyone  was 


I58  THE    RAFT 

pressed  into  service.  Tea  was  over  and  the  dark  had  fallen 
when  he  set  out  to  do  his  own  shopping. 

"Be  careful,  Peter,  and  come  back  quickly,"  his  mother 
called  from  the  doorway.  And  Kay,  thrusting  her  vivid 
little  face  under  her  mother's  arm,  piped  up,  "Don't  be 
'stravagant,  Peter.  Don't  buy  too  much.  'Member  birf- 
days  is  coming." 

Peter  felt  happy.  It  was  as  though  a  long  sickness  had 
ended  and  a  life  that  had  been  despaired  of  had  been 
restored  to  them.  He  knew  that  nothing  for  the  better 
had  really  happened;  but,  because  people  had  laughed,  it 
seemed  as  if  it  had.  Down  in  the  Vale  of  Holloway  the 
bells  of  the  Chapel  of  Ease  were  ringing.  They  seemed  to 
be  saying,  over  and  over,  "Peace  and  good-will  to  men." 

Far  away,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Crescent,  he  could  see 
the  spume  of  gas-light  flung  against  the  dusk.  All  the 
shops  were  there  and  the  crowds  of  jaded  people  who  had 
become  for  one  night  extraordinarily  young  and  compas 
sionate.  He  began  to  calculate  how  far  his  money  would 
go  in  buying  gifts  for  the  family.  Formerly  there  had  been 
just  his  mother,  and  father,  and  Kay,  and  Grace  to  buy  for. 
Now  there  were  how  many?  He  counted.  With  his 
cousins  and  Aunt  Jehane  there  were  nine  people.  He  would 
divide  his  money  into  ten  shares ;  Kay  should  have  two  of 
them.  He  was  passing  the  gateway  of  an  empty  house;  a 
hand  stretched  out  of  the  dark  and  grabbed  him. 

"Peter.  Peter."  The  voice  was  hoarse  and  terrified  at 
its  own  sound. 

Peter  broke  away  and  jumped  into  the  road  that  he 
might  have  room  to  run.  He  turned  and  looked  back.  He 
could  see  nothing — only  the  walls  of  the  garden,  the  gate 
way  and  the  wooden  sign  hanging  over  it,  with  the  words, 
To  Let. 

"Don't  do  that,"  came  the  hoarse  voice,  "they  may  see 
you." 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Peter,  peering  into  the  shadows. 

"You  know  who  I  am,"  came  the  voice;  "this  little  boy 
can't  have  changed  as  much  as  that." 


PETER   TO   THE    RESCUE  159 

This  little  boy! 

"Look  out.     Someone's  coming." 

A  heavy  tread  was  heard.  Grace's  policeman  approached 
with  the  plain-clothes  man.  Peter  bent  down  to  the  pave 
ment  and  pretended  to  be  searching. 

"Hulloa !"  said  Grace's  policeman.    "Who's  there?" 

"It's  Peter.  How  are  you?"  He  continued  his  searching, 
moving  away  from  the  gate. 

"Wot  yer  doing?"  asked  the  plain-clothes  man. 

"Dropped  some  money.  Oh  well,  I  can't  see  it.  It  was 
only  sixpence." 

He  straightened  up. 

"Cawn't  we  help?"  asked  Grace's  policeman. 

"It  doesn't  matter.  To-morrow's  Christmas  and  I'll  get 
more  than  that." 

"It's  more'n  the  price  of  a  pot  o'  beer,"  said  Grace's 
policeman.  "If  you  can  afford  to  lose  it,  we  can.  Good 
night." 

"Good-night,"  said  Peter,  "and  a  Merry  Christmas." 

When  they  were  out  of  sight  he  stole  back.  "Uncle ! 
Uncle !  What  can  I  do  ?  Tell  me." 

"They're  after  me.  I've  nowhere  to  sleep.  I  just  want 
to  see  my  kids  and  Jehane  before  they  get  me.  That's  why 
I've  come." 

"They  shan't  get  you,"  said  Peter  firmly. 

"Oh,  but  they  will.  I  once  said,  'They  shan't  get  me'; 
but  when  you're  cold  and  hungry " 

"You  stop  there.    I'll  be  back  in  ten  minutes." 

Peter  ran  down  the  Crescent.  It  was  he  and  Uncle 
Waffles  against  the  world;  but  there  was  one  man  who 
might  help — a  man  who  wasn't  good  enough  to  be  hard  and 
judging.  Peter  looked  ahead  as  he  ran,  shaping  his  plan. 
Yes,  there  he  was,  dropping  the  reins  on  his  horse's  back 
from  driving  his  last  fare. 

Peter  tugged  at  his  arm  as  Mr.  Grace  heaved  himself 
down  from  the  seat  to  the  pavement. 

"None  o'  that,  me  boy,  or  I'll  tear  yer  bloomin'  tripes 
h'out Oh,  beg  parding;  h'it's  you,  Master  Peter." 


160  THE    RAFT 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Grace,  somewhere  where 
we  can't  be  seen  or  heard." 

"Yer  do,  do  yer  ?    Wot  abart  the  pub  ?" 

"Not  the  pub,  people'd  wonder  to  see  me  there." 

Mr.  Grace  was  offended ;  no  one  ever  wondered  to  see 
him  there.  "Not  respeckable  enough !  That's  it,  is  h'it. 
Ah  well,  you  take  my  adwice.  You're  young.  If  yer  want 
to  live  ter  be  my  age,  pickle  yer  guts.  Yer'll  'ave  a  darter 
one  day,  don't  yer  worry.  Gawd  pity  a  man  wiv  a  dis- 
respekful  hussy Suppose  yer  think  I'm  drunk?" 

The  situation  required  tact.  "Not  drunk,  Mr.  Grace ;  you 
don't  run  your  words  together.  You're  just  Christmasy, 
I  expect." 

Mr.  Grace  threw  a  rug  over  his  horse's  back  and  fetched 
out  the  nose-bag.  When  this  was  done,  he  addressed  Peter 
solemnly,  steadying  himself  against  the  shafts.  "I  am 
drunk.  Yer  know  I'm  drunk.  I  know  I'm  drunk.  Old 
Cat's  Meat  knows  I'm  drunk.  Where's  the  good  o'  argify- 
ing  and  tellin'  lies  abart  it?  Let's  settle  the  point  at  once. 
I'm  damn  well  drunk  and  I'm  goin'  ter  be  drunker." 

The  minutes  were  flying;  there  was  no  more  time  to 
fence.  "Mr.  Grace,  I  want  you  to  help  me.  There's  no  one 
else  in  the  world  I  would  ask." 

Mr.  Grace  cocked  his  eye  at  Peter,  a  blind  kind  of  eye 
like  an  oyster  on  the  half-shell. 

"  'Elp !  'Elp  'oo  ?  'Elp  wot  ?  Me  'elp !  I  need  'elp  me- 
self ;  I  kin  'ardly  stand  up." 

"Oh  please,  not  so  loud !  I'm  serious.  Something  dread 
ful's  happening  and  you're  my  friend You  are  my 

friend,  aren't  you?" 

Mr.  Grace  clapped  his  heavy  paw  on  Peter's  shoulder. 
'S'long  h'as  Gawd  gives  me  breaf." 

"Then  let's  sit  in  the  cab,  so  no  one  will  see  us  and  I'll 
tell  you." 

"Strange  h'as  it  may  seem  ter  yer,  Master  Peter,  I  don't 
fancy  the  h'inside  o'  me  own  keb.  Know  too  much  abart 
it.  There  wuz  a  bloke  I  druv  ter  the  'orspital  t'other  day 


PETER   TO   THE    RESCUE  161 

wrapped  up  in  blankits.  'E  died  o'  smallspecks.  But  any- 
thin'  ter  h'oblidge  a  friend." 

The  door  closed  behind  them. 

"  'Ere,  darn  wiv  that  winder,  young  'un.  I  feel  crawlly 
wivout  air.  Sye,  don't  yer  tell  yer  pa  wot  I  said  abart  me 
keb." 

Peter  seized  the  cabman's  hairy  hand  and  held  it  firmly; 
he  had  to  anchor  him  somehow.  "Has  Grace  told  you 
anything  about  my  Uncle  Waffles?" 

"Swiped  somefing,  didn't  'e?" 

"Yes." 

"Wise  bloke.  Honesty's  been  my  ruin.  H'l  allaws  re 
turns  the  numbrella's  wot's  left  in  me  keb.  I  might  'a 

been  a  rich  man;  there's  lots  o'  money  in  numbrellas. 

Wot  did  'e  swipe?  'Andkerchiefs  or  jewels?" 

"He  swiped  money;  but  he  meant  to  give  it  back." 

Mr.  Grace  made  an  explosive  sound,  followed  by  in 
numerable  gurglings,  like  the  blowing  of  a  bung  out  of  a 
beer  barrel.  "Yer  make  me  larf.  Wot  d'yer  taik  me  for? 

I  ain't  no  chicken Oh,  me  tripes  and  onions!  He 

meant  to  give  it  back !  Ha-ha-ha ! Now  come,  Master 

Peter,  no  uncle  o'  yours  'ud  be  such  a  fool  as  that." 

"Well,  anyway,  he  didn't  give  it  back  and  they're  after 
him." 

"Oo?     The  cops?" 

"Yes.     Grace's  policeman." 

Mr.  Grace  sat  up  with  such  violence  that  the  cab  groaned 
in  its  ancient  timbers.  "  :The  devil,  'e  is !  A  nice,  h'amiable 
man,  my  Grice's  policeman !  'E's  allaws  makin'  h'enmity 
'tween  me  and  my  darter.  'E  watches  the  pubs  and  tells 
'er  abart  me,  and  'im  no  better  'imself.  H'l  'ate'  im.  So 
'e's  after  yer  uncle?" 

"He  and  a  tall  thin  man  who's  been  watching  our  house 
for  a  fortnight.  My  uncle's  up  the  Crescent  hiding  in 
the  front  garden  of  an  empty  house.  You've  got  to  help 
me  to  get  him  away  and  hide  him." 

Mr.  Grace  laid  his  finger  against  his  bulbous  nose. 
"Daingerous  work,  Peter!  Daingerous  work!  H'its 


162  THE   RAFT 

against  traffic  reflations  to  h'aid  and  h'abet  a  h'escapin' 
criminal.  Wot  yer  goin'  ter  do  wiv  'im  if  I  lends  yer  me 
keb?" 

Peter  bent  his  head  and  whispered. 

Mr.  Grace  chuckled,  slapping  his  fat  thighs.  "Blime! 
Lord  love  us !  That  ain't  'alf  bad.  That's  one  in  the  h'eye 
for  me  darter's  young  feller.  HTm  on,  me  lad." 

An  irascible  old  gentleman  who  had  been  stamping  his 
feet  on  the  pavement,  looking  for  the  driver,  now  rattled 
his  stick  on  the  side  of  the  cab. 

"  'Ere,  don't  yer  do  that.    Yer'll  knock  the  paint  h'orf." 

"I've  been  waiting  out  here  for  half  an  hour.  It's  dis 
graceful.  Drive  me  to  Paddington." 

Mr.  Grace  waddled  out  of  the  cab  and  shut  the  door  be 
hind  him,  leaving  Peter  inside.  "I'm  h'engaged,"  he  said. 

While  he  removed  the  nose-bag  from  Cat's  Meat's  head 
and  gathered  up  the  reins,  the  old  gentleman  addressed  a 
few  remarks,  the  purport  of  which  was  that  Mr.  Grace 
would  find  himself  without  a  license. 

As  the  cab  turned  to  climb  the  Crescent,  Mr.  Grace  made 
an  effort  to  outdo  this  burst  of  eloquence. 

"None  o'  yer  lip,  old  bladder  o'  lard.  I  know  your  sort. 
Yer  the  sort  'as  ain't  got  no  change  fer  a  tip  and  feels  un- 
'appy  as  'ell  abart  payin'  a  fare." 


CHAPTER    XIX 
THE   CHRISTMAS   CAB 

As  they  neared  the  empty  house,  Peter  was  about  to 
thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window.  He  had  the  words  on 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say,  "Stop  here,  Mr.  Grace."  So 
much  were  they  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  that  he  almost 
believed  he  had  said  them.  But  he  darted  back,  crouching 
in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  fusty  cab.  At  a  little  distance, 
watching  the  gate,  he  had  caught  sight  of  a  man. 

Cat's  Meat  crawled  on,  ascending  the  hill.  At  the  top, 
where  the  Terrace  began,  Mr.  Grace  halted.  "  'Ere,  young 
'un,  where  are  we  goin'?  You'll  be  'ome  direckly." 

"Turn  the  corner,"  Peter  whispered  from  inside  the 
growler ;  "turn  the  corner  quickly." 

Mr.  Grace  turned  and  lumbered  on  a  little  way.  Again 
he  halted.  "  'Arf  a  mo',  Peter.  Wot's  the  gime?  Tell  us." 

"Did  you  see  that  tall  lean  man,  standing  outside  the 
garden  of  the  empty  house?" 

"May  a'  done.  Thought  h'l  saw  two  on  'em,  but  maybe 
I'm  seein'  double H'oh  yes,  h'l  saw  old  Tape-worm." 

"He's  the  plain-clothes  man.  I  know,  'cause  I  heard  him 
talking  with  my  father.  My  father  said  he'd  give  my  uncle 
up,  if  the  plain-clothes  man  would  trust  him  and  not  make 
mother  nervous." 

"And  wery  friendly  o'  your  pa,  h'l'm  sure.     Let  family 

love  kintinue But  where's  this  uncle  o'  yours  as  did 

the  swipin'?    Come  darn  to  facts,  me  friend.     Where  h'is 
'e  nar?" 

Peter's  answer  was  like  the  beating  wings  of  a  moth, 
rapid  but  making  hardly  any  sound.  "He's  hidden  in  the 
garden  of  the  empty  house." 

163 


164  THE   RAFT 

"Jee-rusalem !"  Mr.  Grace  whistled,  cleared  his  throat 
once  or  twice  and  spat  Then  he  started  laughing.  "Leave 
'im  ter  me,  me  'earty.  I'll  settle  wiv  the  spotter." 

He  pulled  his  horse  round.  But  when  Peter  saw  what 
was  happening,  he  gave  a  small  imploring  whisper.  "Oh, 
Mr.  Grace,  please,  please  don't  go  back  yet;  we've  got  to 
think  something  out." 

"Think  somefing  h'out!  Crikey!  I've  thought.  HT'm 
drunk,  me  lad,  and  when  hT'm  drunk  h'l  think  quicklike. 
You  get  under  the  seat  and  think  o'  somefing  sad,  some 
fing  as'll  keep  yer  quiet — think  o'  the  chap  as  died  o'  small- 
specks." 

Peter  took  his  friend's  advice.  Oh,  what  a  Christmas 
Eve  he  was  having !  He  had  known  Mr.  Grace  both  drunk 
and  sober — sober,  t'is  true,  very  rarely.  But  sobriety  is  a 
relative  term,  according  to  your  man.  Mr.  Grace  sober 
was  afraid  of  the  law ;  Mr.  Grace  drunk  was  game  for  any 
thing. 

Mr.  Grace  jerked  on  the  reins.  Cat's  Meat  flung  his 
legs  apart,  fell  forward,  fell  backward,  came  to  rest  and 
grunted.  He  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  chair  giving  way 
and  making  a  desperate  effort  to  hold  together;  only  Cat's 
Meat  was  always  successful  in  dodging  disruption — a  chair 
in  collapse  isn't. 

"I  see  yer,  Mr.  Piece  o'  Sucked  Thread.  I  see  yer.  Yer 
cawn't  'ide  from  a  man  as  sees  double.  Come  h'out  o'  that 
there  shadder.  Come  h'out  inter  the  blessed  light.  'No 
shadders  yonder,  no  temptations  there/  as  they  sing  in  the 
H'Army  o'  Salwashun." 

When  there  was  no  answer,  Mr.  Grace  continued  his 
harangue.  "Blokey,  yer  ain't  got  a  chawnce  in  the  world. 
I  knows  yer  by  yer  'ang-dawg  h'air.  Yer  wanted  by  the 
cops,  I'll  bet  a  tanner.  It's  Christmas  h'Eve,  blokey,  so  I 
won't  be  'ard  on  yer;  but  yer've  got  ter  pay  fer  ridin'  in 
me  keb.  Every  bloke  'as,  or  else  I  whacks  'im  on  the 
snout." 

"Shish!  Wot's  the  matter?"  The  shadow  by  the  wall 
spoke  and  stirred. 


THE    CHRISTMAS    CAB  165 

"Wot's  s'matter !  I'll  let  yer  know  wot's  s'matter  if  yer 
don't  pay  me  my  fare.  H'l  druv  yer  from  the  Terrace  and 
yer  wuz  goin'  ter  King's  Cross,  yer  were.  And  yer  opened 
the  door  by  the  pub  darn  there  and  jumped  h'out." 

"You're  drunk,  me  man.  HTm  lookin'  fer  the  very 
chap  yer  blatherin'  about.  Where  did  'e  jump  h'out?" 

The  detective  stepped  into  the  road  so  that  the  lights  of 
the  cab  shone  on  him. 

"Kum  up,  Cat's  Meat.    I  see  nar;  'e  ain't  the  feller." 

Cat's  Meat  came  up  one  weary  step  and  the  wheels 
protested. 

"No,  yer  don't."  The  detective  caught  hold  of  the  reins. 
"Where'd  this  chap  jump  h'out?" 

"  'Ands  h'orf."  Mr.  Grace  rose  up  on  his  box  threaten 
ingly,  his  whip  raised  as  if  about  to  bring  it  down.  "  'Ands 
h'orf,  I  sye.  Leave  me  prancin'  steed  to  'is  own  dewices, 
le'go  o'  me  gallopin'  charger." 

"Where'd  this  chap  jump  out?  If  yer  don't  tell  me,  I'll 
arrest  you  instead." 

"Awright,  yer  Royal  'Ighness  !  Don't  lose  yer  'air.  Why 
didn't  yer  sye  yer  was  a  cop  at  fust.  HTm  lookin'  fer  'im 
as  much  as  you  are.  I  want  'im  wery  bad.  You  and  me's 
friends." 

"Friends !  I  choose  me  own  friends.  I'm  a  respeckable 
man,  I  am.  Tell  me  quickly,  where'd  'e  jump  out?" 

Mr.  Grace  removed  his  hat  and  scratched  his  head.  "Of 
h'all  the  fiery  blokes  I  h'ever  met,  you  taik  the  biscuit,  me 
chap.  'E  h'excused  hisself  darn  there  by  the  pub  and  the 
trams.  I  'ears  the  door  o'  me  keb  a-bangin'.  I  looks  round 
and,  lo,  'e'd  wanished  in  the  crards." 

The  detective  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  set  off  run 
ning  down  the  Crescent.  As  he  dwindled  in  the  darkness, 
Mr.  Grace  called  after  him,  "Me  and  Cat's  Meat'll  miss 
yer — so  agreeable  yer  were.  Merry  Christmas,  ole  pal." 
Then,  in  a  lower  voice  to  Peter,  "Yer  kin  forget  the  small- 
specks,  young  'un.  Yer " 

But  Peter  had  leapt  to  the  pavement  and  slipped  through 


166  THE    RAFT 

the  gateway  under  the  sign  To  Let.    "Uncle.    Uncle.    He's 
gone.    Hurry." 

He  listened.  The  shrubbery  about  him  rustled.  He 
looked  up  at  the  empty  windows,  wondering  if  Uncle  Waf 
fles  had  got  inside  the  house.  He  was  a  little  frightened ; 
the  darkness  was  so  desperate  and  lonely.  He  called  more 
loudly.  "Uncle.  Uncle.  Make  haste." 

Then  he  heard  a  sound  of  shuffling  and  something 
stirred  beneath  the  steps.  He  ran  forward  and  seized  the 
man's  coat — it  was  sodden — dragging  him  through  the  gar 
den  toward  the  road.  It  was  strange  that  so  small  a  boy 
should  take  command  of  a  grown  man. 
"You  won't  give  me  up,  Peter,  will  you?" 
Give  him  up !  That  was  likely !  Fancy  Peter  allowing 
anyone  to  suffer  if  he  could  prevent  it !  Why,  Peter,  when 
Romance's  kittens  were  to  be  drowned,  would  steal  them 
away  and  hide  them.  He  couldn't  bear  that  anything 
should  be  wounded  or  dead.  He  pushed  his  uncle  into  the 
cab  and,  before  following,  held  a  whispered  consultation 
with  Mr.  Grace. 

"You  remember  my  plan — what  I  told  you  ?" 
Mr.   Grace  digressed.     He   twisted   round   on   the  box, 
craning  his  neck  to  look  in  at  the  window.     '  'E  don't  strike 
me  as  much  ter  make  a  fuss  abart." 
"That's  'cause  you  don't  know  him." 
"Well,  I  ain't  pining'  fer  an  introoduction." 
"But  you're  not  going  back   on   me,   Mr.   Grace!     He 
doesn't  look  very  grand;  but  he's  kind  and  gentle."     Peter 
was  dismayed  by  this  sudden  coolness. 

"HTm  not  the  chap  ter  go  back  on  'is  friends.  Hook 
inter  the  keb.  I  remember  wot  yer  told  me." 

At  the  top  of  the  Crescent  they  turned  to  the  left,  crawled 
a  hundred  yards  and  then  turned  to  the  right,  going  down 
the  mews  which  ran  behind  the  Terrace.  The  mews  was 
unlighted  and  humpy.  On  one  side  stood  the  high  closed 
doors  of  stables ;  on  the  other,  rubbish  heaps  and  the  backs 
of  jerry-built  houses  not  yet  finished  building. 

The  man  at  Peter's  side  said  nothing.     Every  now  and 


THE    CHRISTMAS    CAB  167 

then  he  shivered  and  seemed  to  hug  himself.  Once  or 
twice  he  twitched  and  muttered  below  his  breath.  There 
was  the  stale  smell  of  alcohol  and  wet  clothes  about  him. 
To  Peter  it  was  all  so  terrible  that  he  could  not  put  his  com 
fort  into  words.  This  man,  who  swayed  weakly  with  each 
jerk  of  the  cab  and  crouched  away  from  him,  was  a  stranger 
— not  a  bit  like  the  irresponsible  joking  person  he  had 
known  as  his  Uncle  Waffles. 

The  cab  stopped.  Mr.  Grace  waddled  down  and  blew  out 
his  lamps.  Then  he  tapped  on  the  window.  '  'Ere  we  are, 
Master  Peter.  HTve  counted  the  doors;  this  'ere's  the 
back  o'  yer  'ouse." 

Peter  stretched  out  his  hand  gropingly  in  the  blackness 
and  touched  his  uncle's.  "I'm  going  to  hide  you  so  you'll 
never  be  found." 

Ocky's  voice  came  in  a  hopeless  whisper.  "Are  you, 
Peter?  But  how how?" 

"You  remember  the  loft  above  the  stable  I  told  you 
about?  No  one  goes  there  but  Kay  and  myself — it's  our 
secret.  It's  too  cold  for  Kay  to  go  there  now.  Mr.  Grace 
and  I  are  going  to  help  you  over  the  wall;  then  you  must 
climb  into  the  loft  the  way  I  once  showed  you  and  lie 
quiet.  To-morrow  I'll  come  to  you  as  soon  as  I  can  and 
bring  you  whatever  I  can  get." 

"You're  a  good  boy,  Peter.  You're  a  ha'penny  marvel; 
I  always  said  you  were." 

The  whisper  was  hoarse,  but  no  longer  hopeless. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  jerked  open  irritably.  "  'Ere, 
make  'aste.  Come  h'out  of  it,  you  in  there." 

When  Peter  and  his  uncle  had  obeyed  orders,  the  cab  was 
backed  up  against  the  tall  doors  which  gave  entrance  to  the 
yard  of  the  stable. 

"Get  h'up  on  the  roof  o'  me  keb,  climb  onter  the  top  o' 
the  doors  and  see  if  yer  kin  drop  h'over."  Mr.  Grace 
spoke  gruffly. 

Ocky  did  as  he  was  bidden  but,  either  through  timidity 
or  weakness,  failed  to  scramble  from  the  cab  on  to  the  top 
of  the  doors.  Mr.  Grace  growled  impatiently  and  muttered 


168  THE   RAFT 

something  explosive  at  each  failure.  Now  that  he  was  in 
mid-act  of  contriving  against  the  law,  he  was  anxious  to  be 
rid  of  the  adventure. 

Ocky  excused  himself  humbly.  "I'm  not  the  man  I  was. 
I've  had  my  troubles." 

"To  'ell  with  yer  troubles !  They  cawn't  be  no  worse'n 
mine;  if  yer  want  ter  know  wot  trouble  is,  taik  a  week  o' 

bein'  father  ter  my  darter Kum  on,  Peter,  you 

and  me's  got  ter  chuck  'im  h'over." 

Standing  on  the  roof  of  the  cab,  they  each  caught  hold  of 
a  leg  and  hoisted.  Ocky  protested,  but  up  he  went,  till 
in  desperation  he  clutched  at  the  doors  and  sat  balancing 
astride  them. 

Now  that  he  had  something  to  do,  Mr.  Grace's  cheer 
fulness  returned.  "Like  bringin'  'ome  the  family  wash, 
ain't  it,  Peter?"  Then,  to  Ocky  threateningly,  "Nar  Bill 
Sykes,  yer've  got  ter  tumble  darn  t'other  side;  I'm  goin' 
ter  drar  awye  me  keb." 

Ocky  said  he'd  break  his  legs — he  might  need  them,  so 
he  didn't  want  to  do  that.  He  lay  along  the  narrow  ledge 
like  a  man  unused  to  riding,  clinging  to  a  horse's  neck. 

"Awright,  yer  force  me  to  it."  Mr.  Grace  spoke  sadly 
with  a  kind  of  it-hurts-me-more  than-it-does-you  air.  Peter 
was  told  to  get  down.  Mr.  Grace  having  driven  away  a 
few  paces,  dropped  the  reins  and  stepped  on  to  the  roof, 
whip  in  hand. 

"Me  and  Peter  is  good  pals.  Peter  says  ter  me,  'My 
uncle's  swiped  somefing.  The  cops  is  after  'im.'  'Righto/  I 
says.  Now  h'it  appears  yer  don't  want  ter  be  saved;  but 

h'I've  give  me  word  and  h'l'm  goin'  ter  do  it. Are 

yer  going'  h'over?" 

Mr.  Grace  brought  his  whip  down  lightly  across  Ocky's 
legs ;  his  humor  made  him  a  humane  man.  Ocky  squirmed, 
lost  his  balance  and  disappeared,  all  except  his  hands  which 
clung  desperately.  Once  again  the  whip  came  down  and  a 
muffled  thud  was  heard. 

Mr.  Grace  took  his  seat  on  the  box  and  gathered  up  the 
reins.  "Any  more  h'orders,  sir?"  he  asked  of  Peter.  "Keb. 


THE    CHRISTMAS    CAB  169 

Keb.  Keb. Thirsty  work,  Master  Peter.  Poor  chap 

lost  'is  nerve;  'e  needed  a  little  stimerlant.  We  h'all  do 
sometimes." 

But  when  Peter  tried  to  pay  Mr.  Grace,  he  refused 
indignantly.  "H'l  h'ain't  like  some  folks  as  would  rob  a 
work  'ouse  child  o'  its  breakfust.  Wot  I  done  I  done  fer 
love  o'  you,  Master  Peter.  You  buy  that  little  gal  o'  yours 
a  present."  Then,  because  he  didn't  want  to  be  thought  a 
good  man,  he  spoke  angrily.  "HTve  got  ter  be  drunk  ter- 
night.  Yer've  wasted  enough  o'  me  time  awready.  Kum 
h'up  'ere  beside  me  h'at  once  and  I'll  drive  yer  'ome." 

So  they  drove  round  the  mews  to  the  Terrace  and  halted 
this  time  in  front  of  the  house.  When  Peter  had  rung  the 
bell,  his  friend  beckoned  him  back.  "Sonny,  'e  weren't 
worf  it.  'E  weren't  reelly." 

Before  Peter  could  answer,  the  door  opened  and  he 
heard  his  mother's  voice  saying,  "Why,  it's  Peter  in  a 
Christmas  cab !  Oh,  how  kind  of  Mr.  Grace  to  bring  you 
back!  Were  you  so  loaded  down  with  presents,  Peter?" 

And  he  entered  empty-handed.  He  would  need  all  his 
Christmas  money  to  help  Uncle  Waffles.  Kay  came  run 
ning  to  meet  him  and  halted  in  bewilderment.  "But, 
Mummy,  where  are  Peter's  presents  ?" 

Grace's  mind  was  taken  up  with  another  subject;  from 
the  steps  she  had  caught  her  father's  eye  and  had  seen 
that  it  was  glazed.  As  she  passed  her  mistress  she  sought 
sympathy,  whispering,  "Pa's  drunk  as  usual,  Mam.  Ain't 
it  sick'ning?  Fat  lot  o'  good  me  prayin' !" 

But  Mr.  Grace,  pottering  down  the  Terrace,  felt  a  Christ 
mas  warmth  about  his  heart.  It  wasn't  because  he  had 
saved  a  man  from  Justice ;  he  was  happy  because  Peter  had 
told  him  that  he  was  the  only  friend  in  the  world  from 

whom  he  could  have  asked  help. Grace  might  call  him 

a  drunkard,  and  to-night  he  intended  to  be  very  drunk; 
but  he  must  be  something  better  as  well,  or  else  Peter 
wouldn't  have  talked  like  that. 

So,  because  he  was  happy,  he  sang  as  he  pottered  down 
the  Terrace.  It  wasn't  exactly  a  Christmas  carol,  but  it 


1 70  THE    RAFT 

served  his  purpose.     It  expressed  devil-may-care  contempt 
for  public  opinion — and  that  was  how  he  felt. 

"Darn  our  narbor'ood, 
Darn  our  narbor'ood. 
Darn  the  plaice  where  I'm  a-livin'  nar, 
Why,  the  gentry  in  our  street 
In  the  cisterns  wash  their  feet, 
In  the  narbor'ood  where  I'm  a-livin'  nar." 

Mr.  Grace  very  rarely  sang,  because  he  was  very  seldom 
happy.  Cat's  Meat  quickened  his  step ;  he  knew  what  that 
sound  meant.  It  meant  no  more  work. 

In  the  distance  the  lights  of  the  public-house  grew  up. 


CHAPTER    XX 
THE   HIDING   OF   OCKY   WAFFLES 

PETER'S  Christmas  cab !  Why  a  cab  ?  What  had  he 
brought  back  in  it  and  where  had  he  hidden  it?  It  must 
be  something  very  grand  and  splendid  to  demand  a  cab. 
Kay  coaxed  him  to  give  her  just  one  little  hint  as  to  what 
it  was :  she  went  through  all  her  love-tricks  without  success, 
rubbing  her  silky  hair  against  his  cheek  and  kissing  his 
eyes  while  she  clasped  his  neck.  It  was  useless  for  him  to 
declare  that  he  had  bought  no  presents ;  she  snuggled 
against  him  laughing — she  knew  her  Peter  better  than  that. 

In  the  high  spirits  that  surrounded  him  Peter  was  very 
miserable.  He  was  wondering  whether  Uncle  Waffles  had 
hurt  himself  when  he  tumbled  into  the  yard  from  the  top 
of  the  doors.  He  was  wondering  whether  such  a  timid 
climber  had  been  able  to  find  his  way  into  the  loft.  He 
was  wondering  how  he  could  help  him  to  escape  to  safety. 
Mr.  Grace  might  not  be  willing  to  assist  a  second  time;  he 
had  said  that  Uncle  Waffles  "weren't  worf  it."  But  he 
was;  he  was. 

Wild  plans  were  forming  in  Peter's  brain.  Would  it 
be  possible  to  put  his  uncle  on  the  tandem  tricycle  and  ride 

off  in  the  night  undetected?  Would  it  be  possible  to ? 

And  then  there  was  another  thought.  Ever  since  he  was 
quite  a  tiny  boy  he  had  had  a  secret  dread  of  the  loft  after 
nightfall — a  fear  which  he  knew  Kay  shared.  It  was  all 
right  in  the  day  when  the  sun  was  shining;  there  was 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of  then.  But  his  strong  imagination 
made  him  suspect  that  the  loft  was  used  by  tramps,  hun 
gry,  fierce-eyed  tramps,  when  darkness  fell — tramps  who 

171 


172  THE    RAFT 

climbed  over  the  wall,  just  as  Uncle  Waffles  had  done. 
If  that  should  be  true  and  one  of  them  should  find  his  uncle 
there .  Peter  shuddered. 

"Peter,  little  man,  you've  been  getting  too  excited,"  his 
father  said ;  "we  don't  want  you  ill  to-morrow.  Don't  you 
think  you'd  better  go  to  bed?" 

And  Peter  was  glad  of  the  excuse  to  get  away  to  where 
no  one  would  observe  him.  He  felt  an  outlaw.  He  had 
taken  sides  against  his  father  and  his  family.  He  wasn't 
at  all  sure  that  he  hadn't  committed  a  criminal  offence ;  the 
police,  if  they  knew,  might  lay  their  hands  on  him  and  lock 
him  up  with  Uncle  Waffles.  What  would  Kay  think  of  her 
brother  then? 

In  the  darkness  of  his  room  he  lay  awake,  listening  to 
footsteps  in  the  downstairs  part  of  the  house.  The  servants 
came  up  and  the  gas  on  the  landing  was  lowered  to  a  jet. 
Then  he  heard  the  rustling  of  paper,  and  his  mother  and 
father  whispering  together. 

"That's  for  Glory." 

"It  won't  go  into  her  stocking." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  will  at  a  stretch." 

"And  who's  this  for?" 

"That's  for  Peter,  old  silly;  go  and  lay  it  on  his  bed." 

Through  half-closed  eyes  Peter  saw  his  father  enter, 
straight  and  tall,  with  his  cropped  hair  and  direct  way  of 
walking,  so  much  like  a  soldier-man.  He  came  on  tiptoe, 
trying  to  be  stealthy;  but  he  stumbled  against  a  chair. 

Nan  came  hurrying  noiselessly.  "Oh  jBilly,  darling, 
you're  a  rotten  Santa  Claus.  Have  you  wakened  him 
now  ?" 

They  listened.  When  Peter  did  not  stir,  his  father  whis 
pered,  "It's  all  right,  kiddy;  the  little  chap  sleeps  soundly. 
By  Jove,  he's  not  hung  up  his  stocking!" 

They  examined  the  end  of  the  bed.  Then  his  mother 
spoke.  "No,  he  hasn't.  He  couldn't  have  been  feeling  well. 
He's  been  worrying,  I'm  sure  he  has,  all  this  last  month." 

"A  boy  of  his  age  oughtn't  to  worry.    What  about?" 


THE    HIDING   OF   OCKY   WAFFLES        173 

Nan  hesitated.  "Our  Peter's  very  compassionate He 

loved  Ocky.  I've  looked  through  his  eyes  often  lately;  I'm 
sure  he's  condemning  us." 

"Us!  Poor  little  Peterkins !  It  must  hurt Well, 

he  doesn't  understand." 

They  bent  over  him,  kissing  him,  thinking  he  slept. 

"Peter  always  fancies  that  everyone  must  be  good  whom 
he  loves." 

And  Nan  answered,  "You  can  make  anyone  good  by 
love — don't  you  think  so,  Billy?" 

He  slipped  his  arm  about  her  and  leant  his  face  against 
her  hair.  "I  know  you  made  me  better,  dearest." 

The  gas  was  extinguished  and  their  feet  died  out  on  the 
stairs. 

One !  Two  !  Three !  The  grandfather-clock  in  the  hall 
struck  out  the  hours.  Peter  could  not  bear  it.  He  must 
tell  someone.  He  threw  back  the  clothes  and  crept  to  the 
door ;  his  parents'  room  was  under  his — they  must  not  hear 
him.  A  board  creaked.  He  halted,  his  fingers  on  his 
mouth,  his  heart  drumming.  No  one  stirred;  through  the 
heavy  silence  came  the  light  breathing  of  sleepers. 

Pressing  his  hand  against  the  wall  to  steady  himself,  he 
tiptoed  along  the  passage,  past  Riska's  room,  past  Grace's, 
till  he  came  to  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  Glory  and 
Kay  lay  together.  He  looked  in;  a  shaft  of  moonlight  fell 
across  their  faces  on  the  pillow.  He  was  struck  with  how 
alike  they  were :  the  same  narrow  penciled  eyebrows ;  the 
same  sensitive  bowed  mouth,  just  a  little  short  in  the  upper 
lip;  the  same  streaming  honey-colored  hair. 

He  stood  looking  down  at  them.  Since  he  had  noticed 
this,  he  felt  a  new  kindness  for  Glory.  Kay  turned  on  her 
side  and  the  paper  on  the  presents  at  the  foot  of  the  bed 
crackled.  Should  he — should  he  tell  Glory?  She  looked 
so  gentle.  No,  it  would  be  selfish ;  he  must  endure  the  bur 
den  of  his  knowledge  himself.  And  yet .  He  was  very 

troubled. 

Up  the   frosty  silence,  tremulous  and   distant,   climbed 


i74  THE    RAFT 

the  sound  of  music — a  harp  and  a  violin  playing.    His  brain 
set  the  playing  to  words : 

"It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear 
That  glorious  song  of  old, 
From  angels  bending  near  the  earth 
To  touch  their  harps  of  gold." 

Its  beauty  quieted  his  dreads,  lifting  his  spirit  to  the 
world  of  legend.  It  hushed,  halted  and  again  commenced. 
It  was  like  the  feet  of  Jesus  on  the  London  house-tops, 
bringing  safety  to  sinful  men.  Perhaps  Uncle  Waffles 
heard  it. 

It  ceased.  A  man's  voice  rang  out :  "Fine  and  frosty. 
Three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  A  Happy  Christmas.  All's 
well." 

Peter  had  turned  his  eyes  to  the  window  where  the  moon 
sat  balanced  on  a  cloud ;  now  that  the  stillness  was  again 
unbroken,  he  looked  down  at  the  faces  on  the  pillow.  The 
eyes  of  Glory  were  wide  open.  She  showed  no  surprise  at 
seeing  him  there.  How  long  had  she  been  watching? 

He  stooped  over  her  and  whispered,  "It  was  the  waits, 
Glory." 

Her  arms  reached  up  and  dragged  him  down.  "Peter, 
Peter,  you  don't  hate  me,  do  you?  I  can't  help  being  a 
coward." 

"Shish!  We'll  wake  Kitten  Kay.  Of  course  I  don't  hate 
you.  I  try  to  love  everybody." 

"And  me  just  as  one  with  the  rest?  Not  even  with  the 
rest,  Peter. — No,  no,  kiss  me  now." 

He  kissed  her;  it  was  almost  like  kissing  Kay.  She  held 
him  so  tightly  that  she  took  away  his  breath.  He  drew 
back,  a  little  thrilled  and  startled.  He  looked  down.  Kay's 
eyes  were  closed;  Glory's  were  smiling  up  at  him,  timid 
with  puzzled  longing.  Years  later  he  was  to  remember 
that.  Then,  yet  more  distant,  the  waits  re-commenced,  like 
the  feet  of  Jesus  bringing  peace  to  sinful  men.  And  that 
also  he  would  remember. 

Back  in  bed  he  lay  very  still.    The  fear  had  gone  out  of 


THE    HIDING    OF    OCKY   WAFFLES        175 

him ;  once  again  the  world  seemed  kind  and  gentle.  "Christ 
was  born  this  morning,"  he  whispered ;  "Christ  was  born 
this  morning.  Oh  Jesus,  who  came  into  the  world  a  little 
boy  just  like  Peter,  you  can  understand.  I'm  so  troubled. 
Oh  Jesus "  But  sleep  was  sent  in  answer  to  his  prayer. 

It  was  dark  when  he  awoke.  What  was  it  he  had  been 
dreaming?  Ah  yes! — He  rose  stealthily  and  dressed.  The 
morning  was  chilly.  His  teeth  chattered  and  shivers  ran 
through  him ;  that  wasn't  all  due  to  coldness.  Without  look 
ing  at  the  packages  on  his  bed,  he  stole  across  the  landing 
and  down  the  stairs.  Outside  the  servants'  room  he 
listened.  One  of  them  was  snoring  loudly;  that  was  reas 
suring.  As  he  drew  further  away  from  the  bedrooms,  he 
moved  more  hurriedly.  All  the  time  he  was  expecting  to 
hear  a  door  open  and  to  see  a  head  peering  over  the  banis 
ters.  Having  reached  the  hall,  he  ran  down  into  the  base 
ment,  taking  less  care  to  make  no  sound.  His  feet  on  the 
stone  flags  of  the  kitchen  seemed  as  loud  as  those  of  a  pro 
cession  marching.  Something  brushed  against  his  legs.  He 
jumped  aside  with  a  cry  of  terror.  It  came  again,  a  shadow 
following.  Then  he  saw  that  it  was  only  Romance. 

What  was  it  he  must  get?  It  was  difficult  to  think;  a 
hammer  was  knocking^in  his  temples.  He  felt  along  the 
dresser;  sent  a  pan  clattering;  stood  tense,  listening;. found 
what  he  sought ;  struck  a  match  and  lit  the  gas,  The  light 
helped  him  to  think  more  clearly,  but  it  also  convicted  him 
of  wrong  doing.  Everything  he  saw,  even  Romance  look 
ing  up  at  him  unblinking,  seemed  to  say,  "I  shall  tell.  I 
shall  tell." 

Things  looked  cheerless.  Chairs  were  pushed  back  from 
the  table,  just  as  they  had  been  left  by  the  servants.  The 
grate  was  choked  with  ashes,  in  which  a  few  coals  glowered 
red.  But  he  must  hurry.  What  was  it  he  must  get? 

In  the  pantry  there  were  sausage-rolls — so  many  that  no 
one  would  miss  a  few  of  them.  There  were  loaves  of 
bread,  an  uncut  ham  from  which  Peter  took  some  slices,  a 
jug  of  -milk  from  which  he  took  a  glassful,  making  up  the 
deficit  with  water,  and  a  dish  of  baked  apples.  He  helped 


i;6  THE    RAFT 

himself,  feeling  horribly  thief-like.  Then  he  thought  of 
how  cold  it  was  out  there.  He  crept  upstairs  to  the  cloak 
room  and  unhooked  one  of  his  father's  coats  from  its  peg. 
He  returned  and  took  a  cushion  from  Cookie's  favorite 
chair  in  which  the  cane  was  broken  and  sagging.  Thus 
loaded,  he  unlocked  the  door  into  the  garden,  closing  it 
behind  him,  and  shuffled  out. 

How  unfriendly  and  treacherous  everything  was !  Even 
the  kind  old  mulberry,  stripped  of  its  leaves,  seemed  to 
scowl  and  threaten  to  reach  down  and  clutch  him.  The 
laburnum,  which  in  summer  was  a  slim  gold  girl,  pointed 
thin  derisive  fingers  at  him.  Across  neighboring  walls 
came  an  icy  breeze,  which  whispered,  "Cut  off  his  head. 
Cut  off  his  head."  As  he  tiptoed  down  the  path,  the  gravel 
turned  beneath  his  tread.  Dead  leaves  rustled.  His  breath 
came  pantingly  and  steamed  through  the  shadows. 

He  hoped  Uncle  Waffles  would  come  to  meet  him.  And 
yet  he  dreaded.  He  could  still  feel  the  shaking  of  his 
uncle's  clammy  hand  as  he  had  felt  it  last  night  in  the 
darkness  of  the  cab.  Sometimes  he  fancied  that  he  saw 
him  crouched  beneath  the  bushes. 

He  paused  irresolute.  Should  he  go  forward  or ? 

He  glanced  back.  The  windows  were  wells  of  blackness — 
hollow  sockets  from  which  the  sight  had  been  gouged  out. 
He  fixed  his  gaze  on  the  window  ahead,  the  loft-window 
behind  the  ivy,  which  spied  on  the  garden.  He  had  always 
expected  to  see  a  man's  face  there.  It  was  to  be  a  face 
about  which  the  hair  hung  long  and  lank,  with  the  mouth 
pendulous  and  the  eyes  cavernous. — What  would  Kay 
think  if  she  could  see  him  now? 

He  raised  the  latch  of  the  door  which  led  into  the  yard. 
He  looked  round,  hesitating  on  the  threshold.  His  imagi 
nation  told  him  he  would  be  clutched  forward.  Nothing 
happened. 

In  the  stable  it  was  dark  as  death.  He  set  his  burdens 
down  before  entering,  so  that  he  might  be  ready  for  a  hasty 
exit.  He  stood  still,  his  left  hand  pressed  against  the 


THE    HIDING    OF    OCKY   WAFFLES        177 

door-post;  if  he  had  to  run,  he  would  push  himself  off  with 
a  flying  start.  He  was  even  afraid  of  Uncle  Waffles  now. 

Heavy  breathing !  Where  was  it  ?  He  called.  He  heard 
something1  whirr,  and  jumped  back.  The  same  instant  he 
recognized  the  sound :  it  was  the  turning  of  a  pedal  on  its 
ball-bearings.  From  beneath  the  tandem  tricycle,  with 
many  groans  and  curses,  a  man  emerged. 

"Bruised  all  over.  That's  what  I  am. — Hulloa!  You 
there,  Peter?  Oh  damn!  That's  another  on  the  forehead. 
Disfigured  for  life,  I  am.  Nice  way  you've  got  of  treating 
your  poor  old  uncle." 

He  pulled  himself  up  by  his  hands.  Even  in  the  dusk 
he  looked  crushed  and  sheepish.  But  every  situation,  how 
ever  shameful,  had  to  be  made  an  occasion  for  jest.  "Won 
der  how  I  came  here !  Tandem  trikes  make  strange  bed 
fellows.  You  must  excuse  my  language.  Your  Aunt 
Jehane  always  told  this  little  boy  he  must  never  swear." 

As  his  uncle  approached  him,  zigzagging  and  groping  for 
support  uncertainly,  Peter  became  again  aware  of  the  stale 
smell  of  alcohol.  He  did  not  need  to  be  told  why  his  uncle 
had  proved  such  an  inferior  climber. 

"Why,  I  brought  you  here  last  night — I  and  Mr.  Grace 
together. — Did  you  hurt  yourself  when  you  fell?" 

"Fell!  Did  I  fall?  I'm  used  to  falling  these  days.  I'm 
a  li'le  bird  tumbled  out  of  its  nest.  Broke  to  the  wide,  I 
am.  And  nobody  cares — nobody  cares." 

Peter,  hearing  his  weak  self-pitying  sobbing,  overcame 
his  momentary  physical  repulsion.  "But  I  care,  Uncle.  I 
do  care.  Glory  cares." 

"Where's  the  good  o'  your  caring,  dear  old  chap  ?  You're 
only  a  boy  and  Glory's  only  a  girl — you  can't  help  me." 

"But  I  can."  He  pulled  at  his  uncle's  trembling  hands. 
"I'm  going  to  hide  you  in  the  loft  till  they've  all  forgotten 
to  look  for  you,  and  then " 

"But,  chappie,  I've  got  to  be  fed  and  my  money's  all 
spent." 

"I'll  get  food  for  you." 

Uncle  Waffles  bent  above  Peter,  trying  to  catch  his  eyes. 


178  THE    RAFT 

"You'll  get  food  for  me — but  from  where  ?  Whose  food  ? — 
You  mean  you're  going  to  steal  for  me.  No,  Peter,  you 
shan't  do  that." 

Peter  was  perplexed.  "If  I  don't,  you'll  go  hungry. 
People  aren't  good  to  you.  I  won't  steal,  I'll — I'll  just  bor 
row.  When  you're  safe,  I'll  tell  them  and  pay  it  all  back." 

"That's  what  I  said,  'I'll  just  borrow.'  That's  why  I'm 
here.  I  can't  bear  to  let  you  do  anything  wrong-  for  me." 

"But  if  I  don't  they'll  take  you  away  and  lock  you  up. 
My  heart  would  break  if  that  should  happen." 

Ocky  sat  down  on  a  box  and  drew  Peter  to  his  knee  in 
the  darkness,  putting  his  arm  about  him.  "I've  never  been 
loved  like  that;  if  I  had  I'd  have  been  a  better  man.  If  I 
let  you  do  this  I  want  to  make  a  promise.  Whether  I'm 
caught  or  not,  for  your  sake  I'm  going  to  be  good  in  the 
future. — You  don't  know  what  I  am — how  foolish  and  bad. 
I  was  drunk  last  night — I  got  drunk  to  forget  my  terror. 
Do  you  think  I'm  worth  doing  wrong  for,  chappie  ?" 

Peter  drew  the  unshaven  face  down  to  his  shoulder. 
"You  poor,  poor  uncle!  It  wouldn't  be  doing  wrong  if  you 
became  good  because  I  stole,  now  would  it? — You'll  let  me 
do  it?" 

They  stood  up.    "What  you  got  there?" 

"Food.  We  must  hurry.  If  we  don't  they'll  find  out. — 
And  here's  some  money." 

"Did  you  steal  that?" 

"I  saved  it  for  Christmas.  I  want  you  to  take  care  of  it. 
Now,  here's  the  way  we  go  upstairs." 

Peter  tried  to  laugh.  He  showed  his  uncle  where  to  find 
a  foothold  in  the  wall  and,  by  pushing  and  whispering  in 
structions,  got  him  through  the  trap-door  into  the  room 
overhead.  Then  he  handed  up  the  results  of  his  foraging 
and  followed. 

The  loft  was  big  and  cheerless,  thick  with  dust  and  hung 
with  cobwebs.  Across  the  roof  went  rafters ;  where  they 
joined  the  wall  sparrows  had  built  their  nests.  Over  the 
stalls  were  holes  in  the  floor  through  which  hay  could  be 
pitch-forked  down.  There  was  only  one  window  at  the 


THE    HIDING    OF    OCKY   WAFFLES         179 

far  end,  which  looked  out  into  the  garden;  several  of  the 
panes  were  broken  and  let  in  the  wintry  air. 

Ocky  shivered.  For  comfort  he  fell  back  on  his  pipe 
and  began  to  fumble  in  his  pocket  for  a  match.  When  he 
struck  it  Peter  saw  for  the  first  time  what  he  was  doing. 
He  snatched  it  from  him  and  blew  it  out.  "But  you  mustn't 
do  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"They  might  see  you  from  the  house." 

"Not  if  I'm  careful." 

"You  never  are  careful,"  said  Peter  wisely. 

"But  baccy's  all  I've  got." 

"You've  got  me.     I'll  come  as  often  as  I  can." 

As  he  was  going,  Uncle  Waffles  hesitated  and  called  him 
back.  "Could  you  manage  to  let  me  see  Jehane  and  Glory? 
Couldn't  you  coax  'em  into  the  garden?  I'm  longing  for  a 
sight  of  them.  They'd  never  know  I  was  watching. — It's 
an  odd  Christmas  I'm  going  to  have." 

Peter  had  no  idea  that  the  time  had  flown  so  fast.  As 
he  passed  up  the  garden,  the  sun  was  swinging  above  the 
house-tops  like  a  smoky  lantern.  He  could  see  the  mold 
beneath  the  bushes,  glistening  and  frosty,  chapped  and 
broken  into  little  hollows  and  cracks.  In  one  of  the  top 
bedrooms  a  light  sprang  up;  it  was  Riska's — she  must  be 
examining  her  stocking. 

He  had  hoped  to  creep  into  the  house  undetected,  but 
at  the  door  he  was  met  by  Cookie. 

"So  that's  it,  is  h'it?  There's  no  tellin'  wot  you'll  be 
h'up  to  next.  I  was  just  goin'  ter  count  the  forks.  I 
thought  as  we'd  'ad  beargulars.  Awright  Grice,  it's  the 
young  master  been  h'out  for  a  h'early  mornin's  h'airing." 

He  ran  past  her,  but  she  caught  him.  "Lor',  yer  cold, 
boy.  Come  and  warm  yerself.  If  you  h'ate  meat  three 
times  a  day  the  same  h'as  I  do  yer  wouldn't  get  blue  like 
that." 

Cookie's  one  claim  to  distinction,  which  she  invariably 
introduced  into  conversation,  was  that  she  was  a  great 
meat-eater.  It  made  her  different  from  other  people  and, 


i8o  THE   RAFT 

having  no  beauty  with  which  to  attract,  afforded  her  a 
topic  with  which  to  draw  attention  to  herself. 

"You  need  some  'ot  chockerlit,  that's  wot  yer  want.  Not 
but  wot  meat  'ad  be  better;  but  there,  that's  where  hTm 
pecooliar.  'Never  was  such  a  gel  for  eatin'  meat.  Lor, 
'ow  yer  runs  my  bills  h'up  !'  that's  wot  my  ma  used  to  say 
abart  me.  She's  dead,  Gawd  rest  'er  bones.  —  Now,  drink 
that  h'up,  yer  little  sinner.  Thought  h'it  was  summer,  did 
yer?  Went  h'out  to  'ear  the  pretty  burds.  I'm  only  pe 
cooliar  abart  meat;  but,  the  divil  take  me,  if  you  ain't  pe 
cooliar  all  over." 

Cookie  sat  down  in  her  favorite  chair;  the  cane  burst 
under  her.  Her  legs  shot  up  and  her  arms  waved  wildly. 
"  'Elp  !  'Elp  me,  Master  Peter.  For  good  luck's  sake  !" 

Peter  helped  her. 

"H'it's  a  wonder  I  didn't  break  no  bones.  Bones  is  brittle 
this  weather.  But  where's  me  cushion?  If  that  cat's  'ad 


Peter  escaped  and  slipped  into  the  cloak-room.  Hidden 
behind  the  coats,  he  listened  to  Cookie  stamping  up  and 
down,  breathing  threatening  and  slaughter  against  all  cats  — 
especially  cats  who  stole  cushions. 

In  her  search  for  the  lost  cushion  she  began  to  make 
discoveries.  "Where's  them  sorsage-rolls  ?  There  was 
twenty.  And  'oo's  been  cuttin'  the  'am?  She  was  allaws 
a  wery  honest  cat.  Can't  understand  it.  Never  knew  a  cat 
to  cut  'am.  Cats  ain't  us'ally  fond  o'  h'apples  —  leastwise 
no  cat  I  h'ever  'card  of.  —  Shish,  yer  warmint  !  Shish  !  Get 
along  wi'  yer." 

Something  was  thrown.  There  was  a  loud  me-ow.  Ro 
mance,  followed  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  followed  by  Cookie, 
fled  upstairs.  Peter  was  pained  that  others  should  be 
blamed  —  even  though  they  were  only  cats  —  for  his  wrong 
doing.  Anything  like  injustice  hurt  him.  And  Romance 
knew  that  he  was  the  thief  !  How  could  he  ever  face  her 
again,  and  how  could  she  ever  love  him?  If  a  cat  could 
steal  a  cushion  and  cut  ham,  she  could  also  take  a  coat. 
Would  they  blame  her  for  that? 


THE    HIDING   OF   OCKY   WAFFLES        181 

He  was  in  his  bedroom,  finishing  the  postponed  odds  and 
ends  of  his  dressing,  when  Kay  called  him.  He  pretended 
not  to  hear  her.  At  last  he  had  to  answer,  "Coming."  He 
went  to  her  shame-faced,  like  a  guest  without  a  wedding- 
garment  :  he  had  no  present. 

She  was  kneeling  up  in  bed  in  her  white  night-gown. 
The  gas  was  lit  and  the  floor  was  strewn  with  paper  from 
unwrapping  her  discoveries. 

"Merry  Christmas,  Peterkins.  Oh,  come  and  look !  This 
is  what  Grandpa  sent  me  from  Cassingland.  And  this  is 

what  Aunt  Jehane  gave  me.  And  this But  why  didn't 

you  come  sooner?  I've  been  calling  and  calling." 

Peter  hung  his  head.  Glory  was  looking  at  him.  Was  it 
just  wonder  in  her  eyes  or  a  question?  Had  she  guessed? 
Would  everybody  guess? 

"I  didn't  come,  Kitten  Kay,  because  I  haven't  anything 
for  you." 

She  gazed  at  him  incredulously.  Her  face  fell  with  dis 
appointment.  "But  the  cab,  Peter?  The  Christmas  cab!" 

"There  was  nothing  in  it.  I've  not  got  anything  for 
anybody." 

She  couldn't  understand  it;  he  could  see  that.  She  was 
saying  to  herself,  "Did  Peter  forget  me?"  But  her  face 
brightened  bravely.  "I've  something  for  you." 

"I  couldn't  take  it,  Kay.    No,  really." 

He  was  nearly  crying  with  mortification.  "I've  nothing 
for  you,  little  Kay ;  and,  yet,  I  love  you  better  than  anyone 
in  all  the  world." 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  him  with  the  divine  magnanim 
ity  of  childhood.  "Dear,  dear  Peter.  Softy  me.  It'll  do 
just  as  well." 

He  returned  to  his  room  while  she  dressed.  He  sat  on 
the  edge  of  his  bed  with  the  gas  unlighted.  He  did  not 
open  the  parcels  which  his  father  and  mother  had  left.  He 
did  not  deserve  them.  He  had  nothing  to  give  in  exchange. 
He  would  be  ashamed  to  look  them  in  the  face  at  break 
fast — especially  to  meet  Riska,  who  was  certain  to  show 
what  she  thought  of  his  meanness.  In  the  darkness  he  re- 


182  THE   RAFT 

fleeted  how  wise  he  had  been  to  give  that  money  to  Uncle 
Waffles  before  the  temptation  commenced. 

Kay  entered.     "Coming  downstairs?" 

He  took  her  hand.  She  pressed  his  and  laughed  up  at 
him,  trying  to  make  him  smile  back. 

It  was  their  custom  to  go  to  their  parents'  bedroom  first 
thing  on  Christmas  morning.  Outside  the  door  Peter  hung 
back,  but  Kay  dragged  him  forward. 

Billy  sat  up,  throwing  back  the  counterpane,  pretending 
to  be  terribly  excited  at  the  thought  of  what  they  had 
brought  him.  Kay  held  up  a  parcel.  "What  is  it?"  he 
asked.  "Let  me  have  it.  What  is  it  ?" 

"Guess.    Father's  got  to  guess,  hasn't  he,  mother?" 

"A  fishing-rod?" 

"Don't  be  silly,  father.  How  could  a  fishing-rod  be  as 
small  as  that  ?" 

The  guessing  went  on — such  absurd  guessing! — until  the 
paper  was  torn  off  and  a  match-box  was  revealed. 

"And  now,  what's  Peter  brought  me  ?" 

"Nothing,  father.  I  haven't  got  anything  for  anybody. 
So,  please,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  take  any  of  your  pres 
ents." 

Billy  looked  at  Nan ;  this  explained  the  absence  of  the 
Christmas  stocking.  "But,  old  boy,  what  became  of  your 
money  ?" 

"I — I  gave  it  away,  father." 

"Last  night?    To  a  beggar?" 

"Not — not  exactly  a  beggar." 

"But  to  someone  who  needed  it  badly?" 

"Yes,  badly.  I  couldn't  give  it  to — to  them  and  buy 
presents  as  well."  Peter  swallowed.  He  hated  lies  and 
would  tell  the  truth  at  all  costs.  "And  it  wasn't  last  night. 
It  was  this  morning." 

His  father  regarded  him  gravely.  "To  someone  in  the 
house?" 

"Not  exactly." 

"I  can't  see  how  it  can  be  both  in  the  house  and  out  of  it. 


THE    HIDING   OF   OCKY   WAFFLES        183 

It  must  be  exactly  one  or  the  other."  Silence.  "You  don't 
want  to  tell  ?" 

"I  can't  tell.    But  I  want  to  so  badly." 

His  mother  leant  out  and  caught  his  empty  hands,  press 
ing  them  to  her  mouth.  What  a  strange  little  conscience 
this  son  of  hers  had.  "I'm  sure  he  did  what  seemed  to  him 
more  generous.  Now  here's  what  mother's  got  for  you." 

"Darling  motherkins,  I  do  love  you — all  of  you.  But  I 
mustn't  take  anything  this  Christmas." 

"Nonsense,"  said  his  father. 

"I  mean  it,"  said  Peter  proudly. 

At  breakfast  the  thing  happened  which  Peter  had  ex 
pected.  Riska  was  too  outspoken.  Eustace  had  asked  her 
a  question  in  a  whisper.  She  replied,  so  everyone  might 
hear  her,  with  mocking  eyes  slanted  at  Peter,  "Because  he 
spent  jt  all  last  night  in  driving  about  in  cabs." 

There  was  another  shock  when  his  father  remarked  that 
the  milk  was  rather  thin  this  morning. 

When  they  walked  down  the  Terrace  on  the  way  to  the 
Christmas  service,  they  passed  the  lean  man.  He  was 
watching :  he  was  there  when  they  came  back. 

Billy  noticed  that  his  little  son  was  furtive  and  restless; 
he  was  always  going  to  the  window,  when  no  one  seemed  to 
be  looking,  and  peeping  out  into  the  garden.  When  the 
coat  was  found  missing  and  word  was  brought  of  Cookie's 
lost  cushion,  he  noticed  that  Peter  got  red. 

He  called  him  aside  that  evening.  "What  is  it?  Can't 
you  trust  me  ?  Can't  you  tell  me,  little  Peter  ?" 

How  he  longed  to  tell.  But  he  looked  up  with  troubled 
eyes.  "I  can't  even  tell  you,  father." 

During  the  days  that  followed  food  was  continually  dis 
appearing.  Every  morning,  as  a  habit  now,  they  glanced 
out  to  see  if  the  lean  man  was  there.  Then  the  eyes  of  the 
elders  signaled  to  one  another,  "So  he's  not  caught  yet." 

Peter's  responsibilities  were  increasing.  He  found  it 
more  and  more  difficult  to  go  on  supplying  the  wants  of  his 
uncle  without  betraying  his  secret.  Moreover,  Ocky  him 
self  was  getting  tired  of  his  confinement;  a  loft  has  few 


1 84  THE    RAFT 

diversions.  It  has  no  refinements :  he  had  not  shaved  for 
many  days  and  his  appearance  was  terrifying.  The  mus 
taches  had  come  unwaxed.  The  white  spats  were  gray  with 
dust  and  climbing.  Still,  when  Peter  visited  him,  he  was 
unconquerably  cheerful.  He  was  only  depressed  when 
Peter  had  again  failed  to  persuade  Glory  or  Jehane  to  come 
into  the  garden.  "I  want  a  sight  of  'em,  sonny.  A  ha'penny 
marvel  like  you  ought  to  be  able  to  manage  that." 

Frequently  he  discussed  marriage  with  Peter,  warning 
him  against  it  and  tracing  his  own  downfall  to  it.  "It's 
awright  if  you  meet  the  right  girl.  But  you  never  do — 
that's  my  experience.  People  think  you  have ;  but  you 
know  you  haven't.  I  knew  a  chap;  his  wife  had  black  hair. 
They  seemed  so  happy  that  folk  called  'em  the  love-birds. 
Well,  this  chap  used  to  get  drunk.  Not  often,  you  know, 
but  just  as  often  as  was  sensible.  Well,  when  he  was 
drunk,  he'd  give  himself  away,  oh,  entirely — let  all  his 
bitterness  out.  He'd  always  hoped  that  he'd  marry  a  girl 
with  yellow  hair.  His  wife  was  awright  except  for  that; 
but  he  couldn't  forget  it.  Of  course  he  never  told  her. 
But  there's  always  something  like  that  in  marriage — some 
thing  that  rankles  and  that  you  keep  to  yourself.  That 
little  something  wrong  spoils  all  the  rest.  Then  one  day 
there's  a  row.  Chaps  have  killed  their  girls  for  less  than 
that. — Ah,  yes,  and  folk  called  'em  the  love-birds !" 

Or  he  would  say,  "Love's  a  funny  thing,  Peter.  Some 
men  fall  in  love  with  the  slope  of  a  throat  or  the  shape  of 
a  nose,  and  marry  a  girl  for  that.  Now  there  was  a  chap  I 

once  knew Umph !  Did  I  ever  tell  you  ?  This  chap 

and  his  wife  were  known  as  the  love-birds  and  his  wife  had 
black  hair."  Then  out  would  come  the  same  old  story. 

/ehane  had  black  hair.  Peter  wondered  whether  'the 
schap'  was  Uncle  Waffles.  And  he  wondered  more  than 
that;  he  was  surprised  that  Uncle  Waffles  should  keep  on 
forgetting  that  he'd  told  him  the  story  already.  He  sup 
posed  it  was  because  he  sat  there  all  alone,  brooding  for 
tiours  and  hours. 


THE    HIDING    OF    OCKY   WAFFLES         185 

"Mustn't  mind  if  I'm  queer,  Peter.  I'd  be  awright  if 
you'd  let  me  have  some  baccy." 

But  Peter  wouldn't  let  him  have  it ;  it  would  increase  the 
risk  of  discovery. 

One  night  he  ceased  to  be  surprised  at  his  uncle's  lapses 
of  memory.  His  father  and  mother  had  gone  out  to  din 
ner.  The  younger  children  had  been  put  to  bed.  Jehane 
and  Glory  were  sitting  by  the  dining-room  fire,  darning 
socks  and  whispering  of  the  future.  Peter  took  his  oppor 
tunity,  slipped  into  the  garden  and  down  to  the  stables. 

Snow  was  on  the  ground ;  every  footstep  showed  like  a 
blot  of  ink  on  white  paper.  He  was  surprised  to  see  that 
someone  had  crossed  the  flower-beds.  Then  he  was  startled 
by  a  thought.  Perhaps  the  police,  or  the  man  whom  Mr. 
Grace  called  'the  spotter,'  had  guessed.  He  listened.  No 
sound.  He  entered  the  yard ;  the  footprints  led  into  the 
stable.  He  called  softly,  "Are  you  there?"  No  one  an 
swered.  With  fear  in  his  heart  he  climbed  into  the  loft : 
Uncle  Waffles  had  vanished. 


CHAPTER    XXI 
STRANGE   HAPPENINGS 

HAD  they  caught  him?  Ever  since  the  beginning  of  the 
adventure  Peter  had  wondered  interminably  how  it  would 
end.  He  hadn't  been  able  to  see  any  ending.  It  had 
seemed  to  him  that,  if  nothing  was  found  out,  Uncle 
Waffles  might  go  on  hiding  in  the  loft  forever  and  he  might 
go  on  pilfering  for  him. 

Peter  had  watched  his  uncle  carefully;  he  knew  much 
more  about  him  now.  He  knew  that  he  was  a  great  dis 
reputable  child,  much  younger  than  himself,  who  would 
always  be  dependent  on  somebody.  He  came  to  realize 
that  through  all  those  years  of  large  talking  his  uncle  had 
never  been  a  man — never  would  be  now ;  that  he  was  just 
a  large  self-conscious  boy,  boastful,  affectionate  and  unre 
liable,  whose  sins  were  not  wickedness  but  naughtiness. 
The  odd  strain  of  maternity  in  Peter,  which  prompted  him 
always  to  shelter  things  weaker  than  himself,  made  him 
love  his  uncle  the  more  for  this  knowledge.  And  now  he 
was  distracted,  like  a  bantam  hen  which  has  hatched  out  a 
swan  and  lost  it. 

He  set  to  work  searching  in  the  coach-house,  under  the 
tandem  tricycle,  in  the  harness-room.  He  went  out  into  the 
yard,  following  the  footprints.  They  led  through  the  door 
into  the  garden,  under  the  pear  trees,  across  a  flower-bed 
to  a  neighbor's  wall  and  there  terminated  abruptly.  What 
could  have  happened? 

The  night  about  him  was  spectacular  and  glistening  as  a 
picture  on  a  Christmas  card.  Everything  in  sight  was 
draped  in  exaggerated  purity.  Like  cotton-wool,  sprinkled 
with  powdered  glass,  snow  lay  along  the  arms  of  trees  and 

186 


STRANGE    HAPPENINGS  187 

sparkled  in  festoons  on  withered  creepers.  The  march  of 
those  countless  London  feet,  that  invisible  hurrying  army, 
always  weary,  yet  never  halting,  came  to  him  muffled  as 
though  it  moved  across  a  heavy  carpet.  "Be  quiet.  Be 
quiet,"  said  the  golden  windows,  mounting  in  a  barricade 
of  houses  against  the  stars.  "Be  quiet.  Be  quiet,"  whis 
pered  the  shrouded  trees,  as  their  burdened  branches 
creaked  and  lowered.  But  he  could  not  be  quiet.  Cold  as 
it  was,  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead.  What  had  hap 
pened  ? 

A  crunching  sound — a  mere  rumor,  seeming  infinitely 
distant !  A  head  appeared  above  the  wall,  right  over  him. 
A  man  lumbered  across  and  fell  with  a  gentle  thud  almost 
at  his  feet. 

"Oh,  how  could  you?    How  could  you  do  that?" 

/The  voice  which  answered  was  thick  and  truculent.  It 
made  no  pretence  at  being  secret.  "And  why  shouldn't  I  ? 
That's  what  I  ask.  I  was  tired  of  sticking  up  there.  It's 
no  joke,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Shish  !     Where've  you  been?" 

"Found  a  way  out  four  gardens  down — the  wall's  lower. 
No  danger  of  breaking  one's  legs — not  like  the  way  you 
brought  me." 

Peter  was  a  little  staggered  by  this  hostile  manner;  it 
was  as  though  he  were  being  charged  with  having  done 
something  wilfully  unfair  and  cruel.  "But  to-morrow 
they'll  see  that  somebody's  been  there.  They'll  follow  your 
tracks  from  garden  to  garden  and  then — 

"I  don't  care.  Let  'em.  You'd  never  do  anything  I 
ask  you.  You  wouldn't  let  me  see  Jehane  and  Glory. 
They're  my  flesh  and  blood ;  and  who  are  you  ?  You 
wouldn't  give  me  any  baccy.  You  gave  me  nothing.  Buried 
me  alive,  that's  what  you  did  for  me.  So  I  just  slipped 
off  by  myself." 

It  was  like  an  angry  child  talking.  Ocky  pulled  a  bottle 
from  his  pocket,  drew  the  cork  with  his  teeth  and  tilted 
the  neck  against  his  mouth.  "Must  have  my  medicine. 
Ah!" 


188  THE    RAFT 

Peter  watched  him.  He  was  thinking  fast,  remembering 
past  queernesses  of  temper.  "You've  done  this  before?" 

"Of  course.  And  not  ashamed  of  it  either.  I'll  do  it 
again  as  soon  as  I  get  thirsty.  It's  cold  up  there."  He 
jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  loft.  "Has  it  ever  struck 
you  ?" 

Peter  disregarded  the  question.  "You  did  it  with  my 
money — the  money  that  was  to  help  you." 

"And  isn't  it  helping  me  ?"  Another  long  draught.  "Ah  ! 
That's  better ! — You  gave  it  me  to  take  care  of — I'm  taking 
care  of  it.  See?  You  ought  to  know  by  now  that  I'm  not 
to  be  trusted." 

Peter  saw  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  arguing.  He 
helped  his  uncle  to  scramble  into  the  loft.  "We'll  be  lucky 
if  you're  not  caught  by  morning." 

"Think  so?  What's  the  odds?  Couldn't  be  worse  off. 
Now  shut  up  scolding;  you're  as  bad  as  Jehane.  Let's  be 
social.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  that  story  about  the  chap  whose 
wife  had  black  hair?" 

"Yes,  you  did.  I  know  now  that  you'd  been  drinking 
every  time  you  told  it." 

"Hie !  Really !  Awright,  you  needn't  get  huffy.  It's  a 
good  story." 

Peter  had  at  last  hit  on  a  plan.  "Will  you  promise  to 
stop  here  to-night,  if  I  promise  to  find  you  a  better  place 
to-morrow  ?" 

"Now  you're  talking.  Reg'lar  ha'penny  marvel,  that's 
what  you  are.  Before  I  promise  I  must  hear  more.  Where 
is  it?"  He  spoke  with  the  hauteur  of  a  townsman  engaging 
seaside  lodgings.  He  was  Ocky  Waffles  Esquire,  capitalist, 
who  wasn't  to  be  beaten  at  a  bargain. 

"Well,  it'll  probably  be  in  a  family." 

"Depends  on  the  family." 

"Then  promise  me  you  won't  go  out  again  to-night." 

"Shan't  be  able  when  I've  polished  off  this  bottle." 

Peter  appreciated  the  unblushing  honesty  of  that 
prophecy.  Before  he  went  he  said,  "It's  my  fault.  I  ought 
to  have  thought  how  lonely  it  was  for  you." 


STRANGE    HAPPENINGS  189 

Uncle  Waffles  tried  to  get  up,  but  found  that  he  main 
tained  his  dignity  better  in  a  sitting  posture.  "Don't  take 
it  to  heart,  sonny.  Forgive  and  forget — that's  my  motto." 
He  reached  up  his  hand  to  Peter  with  a  fine  air  of  Chris 
tian  charity.  Peter  just  touched  it  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers. 

That  night,  knowing  that  her  mistress  was  out,  Grace 
had  done  a  thing-  which  was  forbidden.  There  was  a  pass 
age  running  by  the  side  of  the  house,  ending  in  a  door  which 
gave  access  to  the  Terrace.  During  the  day  it  was  kept  on 
the  latch  for  the  use  of  the  children,  the  dustman,  the 
gardener  and  all  persons  of  secondary  importance.  It 
saved  continual  answering  of  the  front-door  and  prevented 
muddy  boots  from  tramping  through  the  hall.  At  night 
it  was  locked  and  the  key  was  hung  up  outside  the  dining- 
room,  where  anyone  would  be  heard  who  tried  to  get  it. 
Grace  had  borrowed  the  key  and  admitted  her  policeman. 
She  very  rarely  got  the  chance,  and  always  had  to  do  it  in 
secret.  Barrington  was  firm  regarding  kitchen  company. 
"I  won't  have  strange  men  lolling  in  my  house  without  my 
knowledge.  That's  how  burglaries  happen.  The  servants 
can  meet  their  friends  on  their  nights  out.  I  may  seem 
harsh,  but  it's  none  of  my  business  to  supply  'em  with  op 
portunities  for  getting  married." 

So  Grace  had  to  do  her  love-making  on  one  evening  a 
week,  walking  the  pavements  with  the  object  of  her  pas 
sion.  Now  and  then  she  contrived  stolen  interviews  after 
nightfall,  standing  on  the  steps  which  led  up  from  the  area 
and  talking  across  the  railings.  Cookie  sympathized  with 
her  and  helped  her.  "It's  a  burnin'  shime,"  she  said,  "cagin' 
us  h'up  like  h'animals.  H'it's  a  wonder  ter  me  as  we  h'ever 
get  married.  The  master  thinks  that,  'cause  we're  servants, 
we  ain't  got  no  pashuns." 

This  evening  when  Grace  had  stopped  her  lover  on  his 
beat,  Cookie  had  suggested  that  they  should  borrow  the 
key  and  let  him  into  the  kitchen  by  the  side-passage.  That 
was  why  Peter  heard  a  man's  voice  when  he  crept  stealthily 


igo  THE    RAFT 

into  the  basement.  The  sound  was  so  unexpected  that  he 
paused  to  listen  without  any  intention  of  eavesdropping. 

"It  started  Christmas  mornin',  didn't  it,  Grice?"  It  was 
Cookie  speaking.  "The  door  was  h'on  the  latch,  the  milk 
was  watered,  the  sorsage-rolls  and  me  cushion  was  gone. 
We  blimed  the  cat  at  first.  H'l  was  that  h'angry,  I  threw  a 
broom  at  'er.  Not  but  wot  I  might  'a  known  as  no  cat 
could  water  milk  if  I'd  'a  stopped  ter  thought.  And  then 
Master  Peter,  'im  that's  so  ginerous,  'e  forgets  to  give  any 
one  'is  Christmas  presents.  H'it  beats  creation,  so  it  does. 
And  h'ever  since  then,  though  I  h'ain't  said  much  abart  it, 
'cause  I  didn't  want  ter  git  'is  pa  h'angry,  h'ever  since  then 
h'its  been  goin'  h'on.  One  day  h'it's  h'eggs  missin'.  'Nother 
day  h'it's  beef — little  nibbles  like  h'all  round.  And  yer  may 
taik  my  word  for  h'it,  the  little  master's  h'at  the  bottom  h'of 
it.  What  d'yer  sye  abart  that,  Mr.  Somp?  Yer  'andle 
crimes,  don't  yer  ?  Wot's  yer  sudgestion  ?" 

Mr.  Somp  was  the  name  of  Grace's  policeman.  Mr. 
Somp  thought.  "Kid's  got  a  h'appetite,  ain't  'e?"  he  pro 
crastinated.  "I  'ad  a  h'appetite  once. — But  h'l  wouldn't  'a 
believed  it  h'of  'im." 

Grace  giggled.  She  had  evidently  felt  the  pressure  of  a 
burly  arm.  "Not  so  frisky,  cop.  You  'old  too  'ard.  I  ain't 
a  drunk  and  disorderly."  Then,  taking  up  the  thread  of 
the  conversation,,  "A  fine  policeman  you  are !  'Ow  could  a 
little  boy  h'eat  Cookie's  cushion?" 

Mr.  Somp  growled.  Peter  could  imagine  how  he  threw 
out  his  hands  as  he  said  with  all  the  weight  of  the  non 
committal  law,  "Ah,  there  yer  are !" 

"Come  h'orf  it,  dearie.  Yer  don't  know  nothing."  Grace 
tittered. 

"H'if  that's  so,  h'l'd  best  be  goin'." 

Cookie  laughed.  "Ain't  'e  the  boy  for  losin'  'is  'air? 
And  me  cookin'  'im  a  h'om'let?  Yer'll  'ave  a  'andful  ter 
manage,  Grice,  when  yer  marry.  'Is  temper's  nawsty." 

Mr.  Somp  must  have  changed  his  mind  at  the  mention 
of  the  omelet,  for  he  postponed  his  departure. 

In  the  dining-room  Peter  found  Glory  alone. 


STRANGE    HAPPENINGS  191 

"Where's  Aunt  Jehane?" 

"Mother's  got  a  headache.     She's  gone  to  lie  down." 

Peter  took  his  place  on  the  hearth-rug,  his  legs  apart,  his 
back  to  the  fire,  in  unconscious  imitation  of  his  father. 
Glory  bowed  her  head,  hiding  her  face,  and  went  on  with 
her  darning.  Peter  watched  her.  How  slight  she  was ! 
How  lonely  she  looked  in  the  great  arm-chair.  Then  it 
struck  him  that  she  was  always  working,  and  that  Aunt 
Jehane  very  frequently  had  headaches. 

"Don't  you  ever  want  to  play,  Glory?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  want." 

"Why  d'you  say  it  like  that?    Just  I  zvant." 

"Where's  the  good  of  wanting?" 

The  head  bowed  lower.  The  firelight  shone  in  her  hair. 
Her  face  was  more  than  ever  hidden  from  him. 

"But  you're  such  a  little  girl — a  whole  year  younger  than 
I  am.  When  I  want  to  play  I  do  it." 

"Do  you?" 

It  was  always  like  that  when  Peter  took  notice  of  Glory 
— short  questions  and  short  answers  which  led  no  further. 

Peter  leant  over  her  and  stayed  her  hands.  "I  don't  like 
to  see  you  work  so  hard." 

"It's  sweet  to  hear  you  say  so,  Peter."  He  felt  some 
thing  splash  and  run  down  his  fingers.  "I  love  to  hear  you 
say  that.  But  you  see,  there's  no  one  to  care  for  us  now. 
I've  got  to  do  it.  I  always  shall  have  to  do  it,  more  and 
more.'' 

"Not  when  I'm  a  man." 

"When  you're  a  man,  Peter?    What  then?" 

"When  I'm  a  man  no  one  shall  be  sorry.  I'll  make  peo 
ple  ashamed  of  prisons  and  of  letting  other  people  be  poor. 
No  one  shall  go  hungry.  No  one  shall  go  unhappy.  I'll 
build  happy  houses  everywhere.  And,  oh  Glory,  I'll  take 
all  the  little  children  with  no  shoes  on  their  feet  out  into 
the  country  to  where  the  grass  is  soft." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  grave  gray  eyes — eyes 
so  much  older  than  her  years.  "When  you're  a  man,  Peter, 
you'll  be  splendid." 


192  THE    RAFT 

"But  I  didn't  say  it  to  make  you  say  that.  I  said  it  be 
cause  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  there's  a  day  coming 
when — when  instead  of  making  you  cry,  dear  Glory,  I'll 
make  you  laugh." 

"Just  me,  Peter,  all  by  myself?" 

She  tilted  back  her  head,  gazing  up  at  him,  so  that  her 
hair  rippled  back  across  her  shoulders  and  her  throat 
stretched  white  and  long,  like  a  mermaid's  looking  up 
through  water,  Peter  thought. 

"Just  me  only,  Peter?" 

He  couldn't  understand  why  she  should  always  want  him 
to  do  things  for  her  only.  She  wasn't  selfish  like  Riska. 
He  was  puzzled. 

"Why  I'll  make  you  laugh  and  Kay  laugh  and  every 
body,  because  you  know,  Glory,  we  all  ought  to  be  happy." 

Her  face  fell.  The  eager  gladness  was  dying  out  of  it, 
so  he  added  hurriedly,  "'And  most  especially  I  want  to  help 
Uncle  Waffles." 

Was  he  going  to  have  told  her?  Probably  he  did  not 
know  himself.  There  was  a  sound  of  running  feet  in  the 
hall;  Grace  burst  in  on  them  breathlessly.  "Oh,  mum, 
can  I  'ave  a  word  with  you?  There's  a  light  in  the  winder 
of  the Where's  yer  ma,  Miss  Glory?  Quick,  tell  me." 

"She's  gone  to  lie  down  with  Moggs.  Her  head 

But  what's  happened?" 

Grace  was  gone.  As  she  climbed  the  house  they  heard 
her  calling.  Out  in  the  hall  they  found  the  policeman 
standing,  with  his  baton  in  his  hand ;  he  was  trying  to  ap 
pear  very  brave,  as  though  saying,  "Fear  nothing.  I  am  the 
law.  I  will  protect  you." 

Peter  took  one  swift  glance  at  Glory.  Did  she  under 
stand  ?  He  almost  fancied 

"Keep  them  here  as  long  as  you  can,"  he  whispered; 
"I'm  going  out." 

The  last  sight  he  had  was  of  Aunt  Jehane  coming  down 
the  stairs.  She  was  in  her  night-gown  with  a  counterpane 
flung  round  her.  Moggs  was  in  her  arms,  crying  against 
her  shoulder.  Eustace  was  clinging  stupidly  to  her  night- 


STRANGE    HAPPENINGS  193 

gown.  Aunt  Jehane's  'mat'  was  off.  Her  forehead  looked 
surprised  and  her  scant  hair  straggled  away  from  it.  Grace 
was  explaining  vociferously. 

"I've  called  in  the  policeman,  mum.  Luckily  'e  was 
passin'." 

"But  what's  he  wasting  time  for?"  Aunt  Jehane  asked 
tartly.  "If  you  didn't  imagine  the  light,  they're  still  there 
in  the  loft  and  he  can  catch  them." 

Mr.  Somp  spoke  up  for  himself.  "H'l  was  waitin'  your 
h'orders." 

Peter  flew  down  the  path.  The  window  was  in  darkness. 
Directly  he  entered  the  stables  he  knew  what  had  happened, 
for  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  smell  of  tobacco. 

"Uncle!    Uncle!" 

"Here,  sonny." 

"Quick.  Come  down.  Grace  saw  you  strike  a  match  in 
the  dark  and  a  policeman's  coming  to  catch  you." 

Peter  had  to  go  up  after  him,  for  Ocky's  wits  were 
clouded.  He  shook  him,  saying,  "Make  haste.  Can't  you 
understand?  Surely  you  don't  want  to  be  caught." 

The  fear  in  Peter's  voice  pierced  through  the  fog  of 
alcohol  and  reached  Ocky's  intellect.  "But  what's  to  be 
done?" 

"There's  an  empty  tank  in  the  yard — you  know  it?  If 
you  can  get  in  there  before  they  come,  they  mayn't  find 
you." 

Ocky  woke  to  life.  Stumbling  and  hurrying  he  dropped 
down  through  the  trap-door.  As  they  ran  across  the  yard, 
they  heard  the  grumbling  of  voices  approaching.  Ocky 
climbed  on  the  tank,  keeping  low  so  as  not  to  be  seen  from 
the  garden,  and  vanished. 

"Whatever  you  do,  don't  make  a  sound,"  Peter  warned 
him. 

Uncle  Waffles  replied  disgustedly,  "It  isn't  empty.  The 
water's  up  to  me  ankles." 

Peter  had  hoped  to  get  out  of  the  stable  before  the 
search  began ;  it  would  look  suspicious  if  they  should  find 


194  THE    RAFT 

him.  It  was  too  late  for  that.  The  voices  were  near 
enough  for  him  to  hear  what  was  being  said. 

"Nothin'  'ere,  me  gal.     You  must  'ave  h'imagined  it." 

"I  didn't  imagine  it,  neither.  And  don't  call  me  'me 
gal'  as  though  h'l  was  nothin'  to  yer." 

"I  calls  you  'me  gal'  in  me  h'official  capacity." 

"I  don't  care  abart  yer  capacity,  h'official  or  defficial,  I 
won't  'ave  it." 

"My,  tmt  yer  crusty,  Grice!" 

"H'l  am  crusty  and  h'l  tell  yer  for  wot.  Yer  doubt  my 
word — throw  h'aspersions  on  it.  I  did  see  a  light,  I  tell 
yer." 

"Well,  it  ain't  there  now.    The  chap's  gone." 

"Ow  d'you  know  'e's  gone  without  lookin'?" 

"By  a  kind  o'  h'inkstink  one  dewelopes  by  bein'  in  the 
police  force." 

"D'you  know  wot  I'm  thinkin'  ? — Yer  funky." 

"Funky,  h'am  I?  H'awright — h'it's  h'all  over  between 
us.  Never  tell  me  h'again  that  you  loves  me." 

They  had  been  talking  in  loud  voices  from  the  start — 
quite  loud  enough  to  warn  any  burglar.  Now  that  they 
had  quarreled  their  voices  cut  the  still  night  air  in  anger. 
Not  a  word  was  lost. 

Suddenly  they  paused.  "Wot's  that?"  Grace  asked  the 
question  in  a  sharp  whisper. 

"Footsteps  or  I'm  no  cop." 

Peter  heard  the  click  of  Mr.  Somp's  lantern ;  it  must 
have  struck  against  his  buttons  as  he  bent  to  examine. 

"Footsteps.     Someone's  been  a-climbin'  this  'ere  wall." 

"Well,  ain't  yer  goin'  ter  do  nothin'?" 

"You  stand  there,  Grice,  while  I  go  for'ard.  The  chap 
may  fire  h'on  us.  Good-bye,  Grice.  H'if  anythin'  should 
'appen,  remember  I  died  a-doin'  o'  me  dooty." 

"Yer  shan't.  I'll  come  with  yer.  If  'e  shoots  we'll  die 
together." 

"Grice,  h'l  commands  yer  in  the  nime  o'  the  law  ter  stay 
where  yer  h'are." 

But   when   the    door   into    the   yard    opened    cautiously, 


STRANGE    HAPPENINGS  195 

Grace  was  clinging  to  her  lover's  arm.  They  both  looked 
frightened  and  ready  to  withdraw.  Slowly,  slowly  the 
bull's-eye  swept  the  surface  of  the  snow. 

"More  footsteps !" 

The  ray  of  light  followed  along  the  tracks  till  it  fell  on 
Peter. 

"Well,  I'll  be  blessed.  Of  h'all  the I'll  be  blowed 

if  'e  aren't!" 

Peter  laughed.  "It  looked  so  lovely  I  couldn't  stop  in 
doors." 

"Yer've  given  us  a  nice  scare,  young  master." 

"I  didn't  mean  to.  And  when  I  heard  that  Grace  thought 
it  was  a  burglar,  I  thought  it  would  be  such  a  lark  to  let 
you  find  me — just  Peter." 

"That  boy's  dotty,"  said  Grace's  policeman;  "a  little  bit 
h'orf." 

"Yer  come  ter  bed  h'at  once,"  said  Grace  severely.  "I'll 
tell  yer  pa.  See  if  I  don't." 

She  caught  him  roughly  by  the  arm.  Then  Peter  did 
something  mean — he  hated  himself  while  he  did  it.  "If  you 
do,  I'll  tell  that  you  had  Mr.  Somp  in  the  kitchen.  Father'll 
say  you're  not  to  be  trusted." 

"Ah!"  said  Grace's  policeman.  "There's  somethin'  in 
that." 

"Ain't  he  artful?"  said  Grace. 

"Well,"  asked  Peter,  "will  you  keep  quiet  if  I  do?  Is  it  a 
bargain  ?" 

"We  didn't  find  nothink,"  said  Grace's  policeman.  "We 
was  mistooken." 

"It  must  'a  been  the  snow  reflected  in  the  winder  "  said 
Grace.  "Cur'ous,  'ow  the  snow  deceives  yer! — But  oh, 
Master  Peter,  I  never  thought  this  h'of  yer.  I  reelly 
didn't." 

"Until  to-night  I  never  thought  it  of  myself,"  said  Peter 
a  little  sadly. 

"Ah !"  sighed  Grace's  policeman.  But  to  himself  he 
thought,  "More  in  this  than  meets  the  h'eye.  I'll  be  danged 
if  there  aren't." 


CHAPTER    XXII 
CAT'S    MEAT   LOOKS    ROUND 

PETER  kept  awake  for  his  parents'  home-coming.  -  Long 
before  the  cab  drew  up  he  heard  the  jingle  of  the  horse's 
harness  and  was  out  of  bed.  The  key  grated  in  the  front 
door ;  in  the  silence  it  sounded  to  Peter  as  though  the  old 
house  cleared  its  throat,  getting  ready  to  tell.  Leaning  out 
across  the  banisters  with  bare  feet  shivering  against  the 
cold  linoleum,  he  lost  little  of  what  was  said. 

Grace  met  his  father  and  mother  in  the  hall.  "Why, 
Grace,  you  ought  tc  have  been  asleep  two  hours.  I  thought 
I  told  you  not  to  wait  up  for  us." 

"And  you  did,  mam.  So  you  did.  But  after  the  dis 
turbance  that  we've  'ad "  Her  voice  sank  to-  a  mum 
bling  monotone. 

Then  his  father  spoke.  "I  never  heard  anything  more 
absurd. — Can't  be  away  for  a  single  evening  without  a 
stupid  affair  like  this  happening.  Lights  in  the  stable, 
indeed!  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  And  you 
a  grown  woman !  I  wonder  what  next !" 

Grace  was  boo-hooing.  "HT11  never  do  it  again.  I  did 
think  I  saw  'em.  No  one'll  know  abart  it.  Mr.  Somp  won't 
tell." 

"Oh,  go  upstairs.  The  children'll  be  frightened  for 
months  now." 

Peter  heard  Grace  come  up  to  bed  sobbing.  Where 
would  his  wrong-doing  end?  Romance  had  had  a  broom 
thrown  at  her;  Grace  had  received  a  scolding.  The  injus 
tice  was  spreading.  He  examined  the  stain  on  his  heart  in 
much  the  same  way  that  Lady  Macbeth  looked  at  the  stain 

196 


CAT'S    MEAT    LOOKS    ROUND  197 

on  her  hands.  Would  it  ever  be  clean  again  ?  "Never,"  he 
told  himself  in  his  desperation,  "never." 

As  he  turned  to  go  back  to  his  room  he  was  alarmed  by 
the  sudden  scurry  of  naked  feet.  A  flash  of  white  disap 
peared  round  the  corner  and  a  mattress  creaked.  Glory 
had  been  watching. 

When  his  mother  bent  over  him  that  night  he  told  an 
other  lie — he  feigned  that  he  slept.  As  her  fluffy  hair 
touched  his  cheek  he  longed  to  drag  her  down  to  him  and 
tell  her  all.  She  would  stretch  herself  beside  him  in  the 
darkness,  holding  him  tightly,  as  she  had  done  so  often 
when  he  had  had  something  to  confess.  He  denied  himself 
the  luxury. — That  night  as  he  lay  awake  and  listened,  the 
angel  in  the  cupboard  whistled  very  softly,  very  distantly, 
as  though  she  were  carrying  Kay  far  away  from  him. 

When  he  had  offered  his  uncle  a  change  of  lodging,  his 
uncle  had  said,  "Depends  on  the  family."  Peter  had  only 
one  family  to  suggest ;  he  didn't  at  all  know  whether  the 
family  would  accept  Uncle  Waffles.  Gentlemen  for  whom 
the  law  is  searching  are  not  popular  as  guests. 

During  breakfast,  despite  frowns  from  Barrington,  all 
Aunt  Jehane's  conversation  had  to  do  with  the  shock  she 
had  suffered  by  reason  of  Grace's  folly.  When  Barrington 
banged  his  cup  in  his  saucer,  she  lost  her  temper.  "Well, 
I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  talk  about  it.  I  had  to  put  up 
with  the  worry  of  it." 

"My  good  Jehane,  haven't  you  any  sense?  You  can  say 
anything  you  like,  except  before  the  children." 

"Goodness !"  Jehane  replied  pettishly.  "The  children 
were  here  and  saw  it." 

Peter  slipped  out.  Through  the  white  snow-strewn  fields 
he  hurried  and  through  Topbury  Park  where  the  snow  was 
trodden  black,  till  he  came  to  a  quiet  street  and  a  tall  house 
with  stone  steps  leading  up  to  it.  Miss  Madge,  the  fat  and 
jolly  Miss  Jacobite,  answered  his  knock. 

"What  a  long  face  for  a  little  boy  to  wear !" 

"If  you  please,  I'd  like  to  speak  to  Miss  Florence."    Miss 


i98  THE   RAFT 

Florence  was  the  sister  who  was  tall  and  reserved;  she 
managed  everything  and  everybody. 

"Won't  I  do,  Peter?    She's  busy  at  present." 

"Please,  I've  got  to  speak  to  her." 

Miss  Madge  ruffled  his  hair — she  had  seen  his  mother 
do  that.  "What  a  strange  little  boy  you  are  this  morning ! 
You  look  almost  stern." 

She  wanted  to  show  him  into  the  faded  dining-room 
where  a  meager  fire  was  burning;  but  he  said  that  he  pre 
ferred  to  wait  in  the  hall.  She  looked  back  and  laughed 
at  him  as  she  mounted  the  stairs.  He  did  not  reply  to  her 
friendliness.  Then  she  ran;  he  had  some  trouble  which 
he  would  not  tell  her. 

He  stood  there  on  the  mat  twisting  his  cap.  From  the 
varnished  paper  on  the  wall  a  portrait  of  old  Mr.  Jacobite 
looked  fiercely  down.  It  seemed  to  say  to  him,  "Little 
coward,  coming  to  a  pack  of  women !  Learn  to  bear  your 
own  burdens." 

But  where  else  could  he  go?  Even  if  other  friends  were 
willing  to  help  him,  they  kept  servants  and  had  people  in 
and  out  of  their  houses.  At  the  Misses  Jacobite,  provided 
he  kept  away  from  the  windows,  Uncle  Waffles  might  hide 
for  a  twelve-month  and  never  be  caught. 

Eerily,  from  the  second  floor,  came  the  sound  of  Miss 
Leah  singing.  Her  song  never  varied  and  never  quite 
came  to  an  end.  Peter  could  picture  how  she  sat  staring 
straight  before  her  through  her  red-rimmed  eyes,  her 
empty  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 

"On  the  other  side  of  Jordan 
In  the  sweet  fields  of  Eden 
Where  the  Tree  of  Life  is  growing 
There  is  rest  for  me." 

It  almost  made  him  cry  to  hear  her.  He  was  beginning 
to  know  just  a  little  of  that  need  for  rest. 

A  door  opened.  The  singing  came  out.  To  his  aston 
ishment  Peter  saw  Miss  Leah  approaching.  Up  to  now 
she  had  never  left  her  room  to  his  knowledge.  She  beck- 


CAT'S    MEAT    LOOKS    ROUND  199 

oned.  Then  she  spoke  in  that  hoarse  voice  of  hers.  "I 
heard  her  tell  Florence  that  you're  in  trouble.  You're  too 
young  to  know  sorrow.  That  comes  surely.  But  for  you 
not  yet. 

She  placed  her  thin  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  drew  him 
with  her  into  the  room  where  the  blinds  were  always  low 
ered.  Closing  the  door,  she  searched  his  face.  "You  have 
the  look.  Sorrow !  Sorrow !  I  have  suffered  and  can 
understand.  Don't  be  afraid.  Tell  me." 

And  he  told  her — he  never  knew  why  or  how.  She  lis 
tened,  rocking  to  and  fro  in  her  chair,  with  her  dim  eyes 
fixed  upon  him.  When  he  paused  for  a  word  she  nodded 
encouragement,  pulling  her  woolen  shawl  tighter  round  her 
narrow  shoulders. 

"And  in  spite  of  that  you  love  him? — You're  like  a 
woman,  Peter.  You  love  people  for  their  faults  and  in 
defiance  of  common  sense.  And  you  refuse  to  think  he's 
bad?" 

"He's  not  really,"  said  Peter.  "The  world's  not  been 
good  to  him." 

"Not  really!"  She  spoke  reflectively,  as  though  she 
groped  beneath  the  words.  "No,  we're  never  bad  really — 
only  seem  bad  to  other  people  till  they  make  us  seem  bad 
to  ourselves. — Yes,  you  can  bring  him." 

But  to  bring  him  Peter  needed  Mr.  Grace's  help,  and 
Mr.  Grace  had  been  so  candid  in  saying  that  "  'e  weren't 
worf  it." 

When  he  reached  the  cab-stand,  Mr.  Grace  wasn't  there. 
He  had  waited  an  hour  before  he  saw  Cat's  Meat  crawl  out 
of  the  traffic. 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Grace,  with  an  instinctive  fore-knowl 
edge. 

He  let  Peter  explain  his  errand  without  comment  till  he 
came  to  the  account  of  the  part  played  by  Grace's  police 
man.  "  'Oly  smoke !  'Fraid,  was  'e  ? — But  wot  yer  tellin' 
me  h'all  this  for?  H'out  wiv  it?" 

"I  want  you  to  drive  down  the  mews  to-night  and  take 
us  round  to  the  Misses  Jacobite." 


200  THE    RAFT 

Mr.  Grace  became  very  emphatic  and  solemn.  "Cawn't 
be  done.  H'l  wash  me  'ands  of  'im.  Plottin'  ag'in  the  law. 
Too  daingerous." 

"Mr.  Grace,"  asked  Peter,  softly,  "who's  afraid  now?" 

"HTm  not.  Me  afraid  o'  Grice's  young  man!  Was  that 
wot  yer  was  h'insinooating?" 

"But  aren't  you?" 

"No,  I  ain't." 

"Then  prove  it." 

"'Ow?" 

"By  doing  what  I've  asked  you." 

Mr.  Grace  stared  between  Cat's  Meat's  ears,  twisting  a 
straw  in  his  mouth.  The  ears  were  pricked  up.  He  nudged 
Peter.  "D'yer  see  that?  The  'oss  is  a-listenin'.  'E  ain't 
much  ter  look  h'at,  but  'e's  won'erful  h'intelligent.  When 
hT'm  drunk  'e  just  walks  by  h'every  pub  and  pays  no  h'at- 
tention  to  my  pullin'.  'E's  like  a  mother,  that  'oss  is,  ter 
me.  'E's  more  kind  than  a  darter,  which  ain't  sayin'  much." 

"Well?" 

"Well  wot?  Oh,  yes.  H'am  I  goin'  to  'elp  yer  stink-pot 
of  a  h'uncle?  Ter  be  frank  wiv  yer,  I  h'am." 

Cat's  Meat  frisked  his  tail.  Again  Mr.  Grace  nudged 
Peter.  "See  that?  'E  likes  h'adwentures.  Won'erful 
h'intelligent  h'animal,  but  not  much  ter  look  h'at!" 

With  the  falling  of  dusk  they  met.  Peter  heard  the 
wheels  coming  down  the  mews;  slipping  the  bars  from 
the  stable  door,  he  let  his  uncle  out. 

"Yer  a  nice  old  cup  o'  tea,"  growled  Mr.  Grace,  address 
ing  Ocky,  "a  reg'lar  mucker.  Tell  yer  wot  yer  oughter  do — 
yer  oughter  sign  the  pledge.  'Ope  yer  ain't  got  much  lug 
gage  ;  me  keb  ain't  as  strong  as  it  were." 

Ocky  retreated  into  the  darkness  of  the  interior.  He  had 
promised  Peter  he  would  become  a  good  man  and  for  once 
was  ashamed  of  himself. 

Seated  by  his  side,  Peter  felt  after  his  hand.  "Don't 
mind  what  he  says." 

"But  I  am.  It's  true.  I've  been  a  mucker  to  you  from 
first  to  last." 


CAT'S    MEAT    LOOKS    ROUND  201 

Ocky  coughed ;  the  water  in  the  tank  had  given  him  a  cold 
on  the  chest. 

"I'm  sure  you  haven't.  Anyhow,  you're  going  to  be  better 
now." 

"Going  to  try  till  I  bust." 

As  the  cab  lumbered  out  on  to  the  Terrace  a  man  saw  it. 
He  scratched  his  head,  thought  twice,  then  began  to  run 
and  follow.  Coming  up  behind  he  did  what  street-urchins 
do — he  stole  a  ride  on  the  springs,  crouching  low  so  as  to 
be  unobserved. 

Cat's  Meat  alone  was  aware  that  something  wrong  had 
happened.  He  felt  the  extra  weight  and  halted. 

"Kum  up." 

He  refused  to  come  up. 

"Kum  up,  won't  yer?" 

No,  he  wouldn't.  He  planted  his  feet  firmly.  There  was 
something  that  had  to  be  explained  to  him  first. 

Very  reluctantly  Mr.  Grace  got  out  his  whip — it  was 
there  for  ornament;  he  rarely  used  it.  "Nar,  look  'ere  old 
friend,  h'l  don't  wanter  do  it."  But  he  had  to. 

Cat's  Meat  shook  his  head  sorrowfully  and  looked  round. 
His  feelings  were  hurt.  When  his  master  was  drunk  he 
accepted  worse  punishment  than  that  without  resentment, 
but  his  master  wasn't  drunk  now.  Mr.  Grace  laid  the  whip 
again  across  his  back.  Cat's  Meat  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  snorted,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Don't  blame  me.  Never 
say  I  didn't  warn  yer."  Then  he  moved  slowly  forward. 

"Now  h'l  wonder  wot  was  the  meanin'  o'  that?"  re 
flected  Mr.  Grace.  "Don't  like  'is  cargo,  h'l  bet.  Well,  h'l 
don't,  either.  Won'erful  h'intelligent  h'of  'im !" 

Inside  the  cab  Peter  was  asking,  "But  if  you  don't  like 
the  'medicine,'  why  do  you  take  it?" 

"Life's  dull  for  a  chap,"  said  Ocky.  He  would  have 
said  more,  but  was  shaken  by  a  fit  of  coughing. 

They  crawled  along  by  ill-lighted  streets  purposely, 
avoiding  main  thoroughfares.  As  they  drew  up  outside  the 
Misses  Jacobite's  house,  Peter  saw  the  slits  of  the  Venetian 
blinds  turned  and  guessed  that  four  tremulous  ladies  were 


202  THE   RAFT 

watching.  He  opened  the  door  for  his  uncle  to  get  out 
As  Mr.  Waffles  alighted,  a  man  jumped  from  behind  the 
cab. 

"Yer  caught,  Cockie.    Come  along  quiet." 

Mr.  Grace  heaved  himself  round.  "Wot  the  devil !"  He 
was  blinking  into  the  eyes  of  Grace's  policeman. 

"We  can  walk  to  the  station,"  said  Grace's  policeman, 

"but  h'if  you'd  care  to  drive  us Yer  seem  kind  o' 

fond  o'  conductin'  this  party  round." 

"I'll  drive  'im,  but  I'll  be  'anged  h'if  I'll  drive  you,  yer 
great  fat  mutton  'ead." 

"Mutton  'ead  yerself." 

Peter  jumped  into  the  gap.  "Oh,  do  drive  them,  Mr. 
Grace.  Don't  let  him  be  dragged  there  in  public." 

"If  that's  the  wye  yer  feel  abart  it Anythin'  fer  you, 

Master  Peter." 

"Look  'ere,"  said  Grace's  policeman,  "h'l'm  in  love  with 
yer  darter — as  good  as  one  o'  the  family.  We  don't  need  to 
sye  nothink  abart  the  keb." 

"Get  in,  mutton  'ead." 

They  got  in. 

Cat's  Meat  shook  his  harness  as  much  as  to  say,  "Now 
you're  sorry,  I  suppose.  What  did  I  tell  you?" 

Peter,  as  the  cab  grew  dim  in  the  distance,  leant  against 
the  wall  sobbing.  The  door  at  the  top  of  the  steps  opened 
timidly  and  Miss  Leah  looked  out.  "Peter.  Peter."  But 
he  couldn't  bear  to  face  her. 

As  he  stole  home  through  the  unreal  shadows,  he  tried 
to  persuade  himself  that  it  hadn't  happened.  It  must  be 
his  old  disease — his  'magination.  It  was  as  though  he  had 
been  playing  with  fear  all  this  while  and  now  he  experi 
enced  its  actuality.  It  hadn't  happened,  hadn't Then 

the  pity  of  the  pinched  unshaven  face,  the  huddled  should 
ers  and  the  iron  hardness  of  the  world  overwhelmed  him. 

And  Uncle  Waffles  hadn't  said  a  word  when  he  was 
taken — he  hadn't  even  coughed. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
AND  GLORY  SAID 

PETER  asked  to  see  his  father  alone.  They  went  up  to 
gether  to  the  study.  Barrington  knew  that  a  confession 
was  coming.  He  was  curious.  Peter's  sins  were  so  ex 
traordinary;  they  were  hardly  ever  breaches  of  the  deca 
logue.  His  sensitive  conscience  had  framed  a  lengthier  code 
of  commandments,  which  no  one  but  he  would  dream 
of  observing.  Barrington  struggled  to  keep  his  face  grave 
and  long;  inwardly  he  was  laughing.  He  drew  up  his  big 
chair  to  the  fire — his  soldier's  chair  the  children  called  it. 
He  put  out  his  knee  invitingly.  "Sit  down,  little  son. 
What's  the  trouble  ?" 

"I'd  rather  stand,  father.  You'll  never  want  to  speak  to 
me  again  when  I've  told  you." 

Barrington  observed  Peter's  pallor  and  the  way  his  hands 
kept  folding  and  unfolding. 

"It  can't  be  as  bad  as  that,  old  man.    Nothing  could  be." 

"But  it  is,  father.  I'm  a  thief  and  a  liar,  and  I  expect 
I'll  be  arrested  before  morning." 

Peter's  tense  sincerity  carried  conviction.  This  time  there 
was  certainly  something  the  matter. 

"Well,  Peter,  I'll  forgive  you  before  you  tell  me.  Now 
speak  up  like  a  little  knight.  The  bravest  thing  in  all  the 
world  is  to  tell  the  whole  truth  when  it's  easy  to  lie. — 
Queer  things  have  been  happening  lately.  It's  about  those 
Christmas  presents,  now,  isn't  it?" 

Peter  stood  erect  with  his  hands  behind  him,  his  curly 
head  thrown  back  and  his  knickerbockered  legs  close  to 
gether.  "You  mustn't  be  kind  to  me,  father.  It  makes  it 
harder.  I'm  going  to  hurt  you." 

203 


204  THE   RAFT 

Barrington  had  never  felt  prouder  of  his  son.  He  rested 
his  chin  on  his  fingers  and  nodded.  "Go  on." 

In  a  low,  tremulous  voice  he  told  him  all,  keeping  the 
tears  back  bravely.  When  he  paused,  his  father  waited ;  he" 
wanted  to  hear  Peter's  own  story  without  frightening  him 
by  interruption.  He  had  had  an  important  engagement 
that  evening,  but  he  let  it  slide.  As  the  account  progressed 
he  saw  that  here  was  something  really  serious.  And  yet 
how  Peterish  it  was  to  feel  so  poignantly  the  unjust  pun 
ishing  of  Romance !  The  humor  of  it  all  vanished  when 
Peter  told  how  Uncle  Waffles  had  been  arrested. 

"And  then,"  he  said,  "I  came  straight  home  to  tell  you. 
I  don't  suppose  you'll  want  me  to  live  here  any  longer.  It 
wouldn't  be  good  for  Kay ;  I'm  too  wicked.  I'm  almost  too 
bad  for  anybody.  Kay — Kay'll  never  be  able  to  love  me 
any  more." 

They  gazed  at  each  other  in  silence.  Barrington  did 
not  dare  to  trust  himself  to  talk ;  he  knew  that  his  voice 
would  be  unsteady.  He  was  frightened  he  would  sink  be 
low  Peter's  standard  and  give  way  to  crying.  He  had  to 
keep  his  eyes  quite  still  for  fear  the  tears  would  fall.  And 
he  recalled  the  last  confession  that  this  room  had  heard — 
it  was  from  Ocky.  He  compared  it  with  Peter's. 

The  minutes  dragged  on.  Peter  watched  his  father's 
face;  he  saw  there  the  worst  thing  of  all — sorrow. 

A  coal  falling  in  the  grate  took  their  attention  for  a  mo 
ment  from  themselves. 

Barrington  leant  further  forward.  "What  made  you  do 
it,  Peter?" 

"I  loved  him." 

"But  what  made  you  love  him  when  you  came  to  know 
all?" 

"Because  nobody  else  loved  him."  Peter  caught  his  voice 
tripping  on  a  sob  and  stopped. 

"But  he  made  other  people  unhappy.  Just  think  for  a 
minute :  Aunt  Jehane's  homeless  and  so  are  all  your 
cousins." 


AND   GLORY    SAID  205 

"I  know.  But  it  seemed  so  dreadful  for  him  to  be  lonely, 
wandering  about — wandering  about  at  Christmas." 

"But  wasn't  it  his  own  fault?" 

Peter  bit  his  lip — he'd  never  thought  of  not  loving  peo 
ple  just  because  they'd  done  wrong.  Things  were  all  so 
tangled.  He  remembered  Jesus  and  the  dying  thief  on  the 
cross.  Surely  that,  too,  was  the  thief's  own  fault?  But 
he  knew  that  people  rarely  quoted  the  Bible  except  on  Sun 
days — so  he  just  looked  at  his  father  and  said  nothing. — 
Again  the  minutes  dragged  on. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Glory  entered  shyly.  "I'm 
going  to  bed,  Uncle.  May  I  kiss  you  and  Peter  good 
night?" 

Barrington  nodded.  "Come  here,  little  girl;  but  first 
close  the  door." 

As  she  stooped  over  him,  he  slipped  his  arm  round  her 
and  drew  her  to  his  knee.  "Peter  isn't  going  to  kiss  you 
to-night.  He  thinks  he  isn't  worthy." 

"Peter  not  worthy!"  She  shook  back  the  hair  from  her 
eyes  and  gazed  from  Peter  to  her  uncle  incredulously. 

"He  doesn't  think  he's  worthy  to  be  loved  by  any  of  us. 
He  expects  he  won't  live  here  much  longer." 

"But  why?  Why? — Peter  can't  have  done  anything 
wicked." 

"I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  tell  you  what  he's  done,  just  as 
he  told  me.  And  then  I  want  you  to  say  what  you  think 
of  him." 

It  was  hard  to  have  to  repeat  his  confession,  but  Peter 
did  it.  While  he  spoke,  his  father  could  feel  how  Glory's 
body  stiffened  and  trembled.  Sometimes  her  eyes  were 
unexcited,  as  though  she  were  listening  to  an  old  story. 
Sometimes  they  were  like  stars,  fixed  and  glistening.  When 
the  end  was  reached,  she  bowed  her  head  on  her  uncle's 
shoulder,  shaken  with  deep  sobbing.  "Poor  father!  Oh, 
poor  father!" 

As  she  grew  quiet,  Barrington  turned  her  face  toward 
his.  "And  that,"  he  said,  "is  why  Peter  thinks  he  isn't 


J2o6  THE   RAFT 

worthy.  He's  waiting,  Glory.  You've  not  told  him  yet 
what  you  think  of  him." 

She  looked  toward  Peter,  dazed,  as  though  not  fully 
understanding.  Then  she  saw  how  alone  and  upright  he 
was  standing;  it  dawned  on  her  that  he  was  really  waiting 
for  her  to  pronounce  his  sentence.  She  rose  to  her  feet; 
"her  uncle's  arm  still  about  her. 

"Why — why,  I  think  Peter's  the  most  splendiferous  boy 
in  the  world." 

Barrington  laughed.  "D'you  know,  I  didn't  dare  to  say 
it;  but  that's  just  what  I've  been  thinking  all  evening." 

It  was  only  when  Glory's  arms  went  about  him  that 
Peter  sank  below  his  standard  of  courage. 

"I  guessed  it  all  the  while,"  she  whispered ;  "I  was  wait 
ing  for  you  to  tell  me.  Why  wouldn't  you  let  me  help 
you?" 

Ah,  why,  why?  How  often  in  years  to  come  would  she 
ask  him  that  question,  not  with  her  lips  as  now,  but  with  her 
gravely  following  eyes ! 


CHAPTER   XXIV 
THE  TRICYCLE  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY 

"HTM  a  better  man  than  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Grace. 

"In  wot  respeck?"  asked  Mr.  Somp. 

"In  h'every  respeck,"  said  Mr.  Grace.  "Nice  wye  yer've 
got  o'  h'arsking  fer  me  darter's  'and." 

Mr.  Somp  rubbed  his  nose,  finished  off  his  beer  and 
winked  at  the  barmaid.  Then  he  turned  with  a  smile  of 
tolerant  patronage  to  his  future  father-in-law.  'Any'ow, 
Cockie,  h'l  didn't  need  to  h'arsk  yer.  Yer  must  allaws  re 
member  that  you  come  in  on  the  second  h'act." 

"Wot  d'yer  mean  ?" 

"H'l  mean  the  curtain  was  h'up  and  the  play'd  began 
when  you  h'entered." 

"H'information  ter  me — I'm  larnin'."  Mr.  Grace  tossed 
off  his  pot  to  show  his  supreme  contempt  and  signed  for 
another.  Having  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  he  spoke  reflectively.  "So  I  h'entered  when  the 
bloomin'  curtain  was  h'up !  Now  I  h'allaws  thought  as  I 
wuz  be'ind  the  scenes  and  'elped  ter  mike  'er." 

"A  peep  be'ind  the  scenes,"  chirped  the  barmaid ;  "read 
a  book  called  that  once.  Mr.  Grice  this  'ouse  is  respeckable. 
If  you  ain't  careful  you'll  get  chucked  h'out." 

Mr.  Somp  looked  deeply  shocked.  "That  ain't  no  sub- 
jeck  to  mention  before  ladies — birth  ain't  a  matter  ter  be 
discussed  in  publick.  It  'appens  to  h'all  of  us,  but  people 
as  is  well  brought  h'up  tries  to  ferget  it." 

Glancing  round  and  seeing  that  opinion  was  against  him, 
Mr.  Grace  retreated  a  step  in  the  argument.  "You  said  as 
h'l  came  in  on  the  second  h'act.  As  'ow?" 

"H'after  I'd  h'arsked  yer  darter  and  she'd  said  'yus.'  In 

207 


208  THE    RAFT 

'igh  society  h'it's  considered  perlite  to  h'arsk  the  purmission 
o'  the  parent." 

"  'Igh  society  be  blowed.    Pooh !" 

"Well,  and  'avn't  I  been  purmoted?"  said  Mr.  Somp  im 
portantly,  scenting  an  affront. 

Mr.  Grace  was  surprised  into  an  expression  of  astonish 
ment.  Then,  in  an  effort  to  recover  lost  ground,  ""Wot 
mug  purmoted  you?"  To  the  barmaid  he  said,  "HT11  be 
King's  jockey  if  h'l  wite  long  enough." 

Mr.  Somp  swelled  out  his  chest.  "H'l  got  purmotion  fer 
nabbin'  that  bloke  Waffles.  Wot  d'yer  sye  ter  me  proposal 
now?" 

An  audience  of  tap-room  loafers  had  gathered ;  there 
was  a  reputation  to  be  won.  "H'l  sye  wot  hT've  awready 
said.  HTm  a  better  man  than  you  are  and  me  darter's 
better." 

"In  wot  respeck?"     Mr.  Somp  was  tenacious. 

"She's  a  h'orator  as  yer'll  soon  find  h'out  if  yer  marry 
'er." 

The  policeman  gazed  at  the  cabman  sombrely.  "That 
don't  mike  'er  no  better;  h'it  mikes  'er  wuss.  HT've  found 
that  h'out.  It's  my  h'opinion  that  wimen  should  be  seen- 
and  not  'card." 

"So  yer've  found  it  h'out,  'ave  yer?"  Into  Mr.  Grace's 
voice  had  crept  a  sudden  warmth  of  fellow-feeling  and 
friendliness. 

"Ter  my  regret,"  sighed  Grace's  policeman,  wagging  a 
mournful  head.  "If  I'd  knowed  before  h'l  got  ter  love 

'er Ah,  well !  It  don't  mend  matters  ter  talk  abart 

it." 

Mr.  Grace  heaved  himself  off  the  bench.  "Shike  'ands, 
old  pal ;  yer  goin'  ter  suffer." 

Mr.  Somp  gloomily  accepted  the  proffered  hand,  looking 
at  the  barmaid.  "HTm  afraid  I  h'am." 

"Then  why  not  taik  me?"  asked  the  barmaid  cheerily. 

"And  why  not?  That's  the  question.  My  dear,  you 
might  mike  me  suffer  wuss." 

"And  I  mightn't  'ave  you,"  she  said  coyly.     "Any'ow, 


Mr.  Somp  had  no  sympathy 
with  the  Salvation  Army. 


THE   TRICYCLE    MAKES   A    DISCOVERY    209 

old  top,  try  me  next.  Yours  truly,  Gertie,  h'always  ready 
ter  oblige  a  friend." 

It  was  the  day  after  the  honeymoon,  which  had  consisted 
of  a  steamer-trip  to  Greenwich,  that  Mr.  Somp  confided  to 
Mr.  Grace,  "Too  much  religion  abart  your  gel."  At  that 
hour  Mr.  Somp  and  Grace's  father  became  friends. 

Grace's  husband  had  no  sympathy  with  the  Salvation 
Army — he  didn't  feel  the  need  of  conversion;  and  Grace, 
for  her  part,  had  no  patience  with  men  who  refused  to  sign 
the  pledge.  Mr.  Somp  took  revenge  for  domestic  wrongs 
in  his  official  capacity,  by  moving  his  wife  along  when  he 
found  her  beating  her  drum  at  street  corners.  Mrs.  Somp 
punished  him  by  keeping  him  awake  at  night  while,  to  use 
his  own  words,  she  sneaked  to  God  abart  him.  She  even 
addressed  God  in  the  highways  on  this  intensely  private 
matter,  when  she  saw  her  husband  approaching.  She  fol 
lowed  St.  Paul's  advice  by  being  urgent  in  season  and  out 
in  her  rebuking,  long-suffering,  teaching  and  exhorting. 
Her  lofty  sense  of  right  and  wrong  depressed  him ;  he  grew 
slack,  lost  his  standing  in  the  force  and  gradually  ceased 
to  work.  His  self-confidence  melted  before  her  superior 
morality. 

So  she  went  back  to  the  Barringtons  by  the  day  to  do 
charring  and  to  give  extra  help.  That  was  how  Peter  came 
to  know  all  about  her  intimate  matrimonial  problems.  He 
heard  the  other  side  from  Mr.  Grace  and  Mr.  Somp,  who 
now  had  a  common  grievance — they  wanted  to  drink  and 
Grace  tried  to  prevent  them.  "Don't  you  never  marry  a 
good  woman,"  they  both  advised  him ;  "good  wimen  is 
bad." 

Grace,  on  the  other  hand,  despite  her  frequent  com 
plaints,  held  that  her  husband  was  a  very  decent  man,  but 
bone-lazy.  Having  proved  prayer  useless,  she  could  think 
of  only  one  other  remedy.  "If  I  was  ter  die,  father'd  be 
sorry  and  my  'usband  'ad  'ave  ter  work ;  but  I  ain't  got  the 
'eart  ter  do  it." 

To  which  Cookie  would  reply,  "I'm  sure  yer  'aven't, 
dearie.  It's  them  as  should  do  the  dyin'." 


aio  THE   RAFT 

After  Ocky's  arrest  a  period  of  flatness  followed.  The 
uncertainty  which  had  kept  the  household  nervous  and  hop 
ing  for  the  best  no  longer  buoyed  them  up.  Until  they 
heard  that  Waffles  had  been  sentenced,  they  could  make 
no  plans  for  Jehane's  future.  Barrington  placed  money  at 
his  disposal  for  his  defence  and  went  to  see  him  once.  He 
never  disclosed  what  happened;  but  his  face  was  ashen 
when  he  returned.  All  that  evening,  when  anyone  spoke  to 
him,  he  seemed  to  have  to  wake  before  he  could  answer. 

Next  morning  he  told  Jehane,  "Ocky  wants  to  see  you." 

She  shook  her  head.  "He's  dragged  me  low  enough.  I 
never  intend  to  see  him  again." 

"If  that's  the  way  you  feel,  you  couldn't  help  him;  it's 
better  that  you  shouldn't  visit  him." 

She  looked  into  the  shrewd  gray  eyes  fiercely.  She 
wanted  to  find  anger  there — she  could  resent  anger ;  she 
found  only  quiet  judgment.  "You  don't  mean  that  you 
actually  expected  me  to  go  to  him?" 

"I  expected  nothing,  but  he's  in  trouble.  You've  given 
him  children — he's  your  husband.  In  all  your  years  to 
gether  there  must  have  been  some  hours  that  are  sweet  to 
remember.  I  did  rather  hope  that,  now  that  he's  in  trouble, 
you  might  have  remembered  them." 

"Well,  I  don't.    I'm  ashamed  that  I  ever  had  them." 

"All  right.  It's  strange;  but  I  think  I  understand.  He 
still  loves  you,  Jehane,  and  you  could  have  helped  the 
chap." 

"Love!    What's  the  value  of  his  love?" 

"I  think  its  value  once  was  whatever  you  cared  to  make 
it." 

Later  in  the  day  he  said  to  her,  "And  you  wouldn't  let 
Glory  see  him,  I  suppose?  He  mentioned  her." 

"No,  I  wouldn't.  He's  not  her  father.  Captain  Spashett 
was  a  gentleman." 

The  children  were  never  told  what  occurred  at  the  trial  ; 
all  they  knew  was  that  the  man  who  had  laughed  and 
played  with  them,  who  had  loved  the  sunshine  so  care 
lessly,  was  to  be  locked  up  for  a  time  so  long  that  it  seemed 


THE   TRICYCLE    MAKES    A   DISCOVERY   211 

like  the  "ever  and  forever"  of  the  Bible.  It  was.  like  bury 
ing  someone  who  was  not  dead — they  seemed  to  hear  him 
tapping.  And  they  must  not  go  to  him ;  they  must  pretend 
they  had  not  heard.  He  was  a  thing  to  be  shunned  and 
forgotten. 

Jehane  was  anxious  to  earn  her  living.  But  how?  She 
had  been  trained  to  do  nothing.  Barrington  bought  her  a 
little  cottage  near  Southgate,  which  at  this  time  was  still 
in  the  country.  Gradually  he  got  into  the  habit  of  letting 
her  do  a  little  outside  reading  for  his  firm — he  did  it  to 
enable  her  to  pretend  that  she  was  self-supporting.  To  his 
surprise  she  developed  a  faculty  for  the  work  and  he  began 
to  trust  her  judgment.  She  had  inherited  a  literary  instinct 
of  which,  during  her  married  life,  she  had  remained  un 
aware.  It  was  a  feeble  instinct,  but  in  the  end  it  proved 
sufficiently  rewarding.  She  took  to  writing  sentimental 
novelettes,  which  found  a  market.  Whatever  her  faults  of 
heart,  she  had  always  been  capable  and  gifted  with  a  strong 
sense  of  duty ;  so,  now  that  she  had  found  a  means  of  mak 
ing  money,  she  worked  hard  with  her  pen,  stinting  herself 
and  treating  her  children  with  foolish  liberality. 

Her  chief  regret  was  that  Ocky  had  spoilt  the  marriage 
chances  of  her  girls;  she  tried  to  rub  out  this  social  stain 
by  creating  the  impression  that  her  husband  was  dead.  She 
had  two  extravagances — the  purchase  of  hair-tonics  and  a 
mania  for  visiting  fortune-tellers.  She  had  one  great  hope 
— that  in  the  future  she  might  re-marry.  This  would  entail 
Ocky's  death ;  but  she  was  not  so  cruel  as"  to  reason  that 
out.  She  had  one  great  mission — to  teach  her  daughters  to 
catch  men.  Her  chief  theme  of  conversation  with  her  chil 
dren  was  the  wickedness  of  their  father  and  the  heroic 
loyalty  of  her  own  conduct.  No  doubt  there  were  times 
when  her  conscience  troubled  her. 

Peter  was  just  fifteen  and  Kay  was  nearly  nine  when  all 
this  happened.  It  made  a  deep  impression  on  both  of 
them,  but  especially  on  Peter.  For  months  the  crushed 
shoulders  and  sunken  face  of  Uncle  Waffles  haunted  his 
memory,  so  that  it  seemed  a  crime  to  be  happy.  He  could 


212  THE   RAFT 

not  bear  to  enter  the  stable;  he  was  always  expecting  to 
hear  a  hoarse  voice  addressing  him  in  a  whisper  from  the 
loft,  calling  him  a  ha'penny  marvel  or  enquiring  whether 
he  knew  the  story  of  the  husband  whose  wife  had  black 
hair.  Often  in  the  street  he  would  turn  sharply  at  the 
sight  of  some  shabby  outcast,  shuffling  through  the  crowd 
with  bowed  head.  He  would  run  to  the  window,  hardly 
daring  to  own  what  he  expected,  when  he  heard  the  mourn 
ful  singing  along  the  Terrace  of  a  group  of  out-of-works: 

"We've  got  no  work  to  do, 
We've  got  no  work  to  do ; 
We're  all  thrown  out,  poor  labourin'  men, 
And  we've  got  no  work  to  do." 

Sooner  or  later  he  would  recognize,  he  knew,  in  one  of  the 
tattered  singers  his  Uncle  Waffles.  Peter  was  suffering 
from  a  suddenly  awakened  social  conscience;  he  did  not 
know  enough  to  call  it  that. 

It  was  partly  because  Barrington  had  observed  and  was 
distressed  by  his  boy's  sadness,  that  he  granted  his  desire. 
He  granted  it  to  give  him  a  new  interest.  Peter  had  always 
dreamt  of  a  day  when  he  should  polish  up  the  tandem 
tricycle,  put  Kay  on  the  back  seat  and  ride  off  with  her 
into  the  country. 

"Well,  Peter,  I'll  let  you  do  it  if  you'll  promise  to  be 
very  careful." 

It  was  early  summer  when  these  splendid  adventures 
commenced.  Peter  had  to  do  all  the  work — Kay's  legs 
were  too  short  to  reach  the  pedals.  But  what  did  he  care  ? 
Just  to  have  his  little  sister  all  to  himself,  London  dropping 
away  behind  and  the  world  growing  greener  before  him — 
what  more  could  a  boy  ask  to  make  him  happy  ? 

The  tandem  trike  was  a  clumsy  solid-tired  affair — des 
perately  heavy  and  beyond  belief  old-fashioned.  Peter 
managed  to  accomplish  six  miles  an  hour  on  it.  The  way 
out,  along  Green  Lanes  to  Wood  Green  and  up  Jolly 
Butcher's  Hill,  would  have  been  full  of  ignominy  for  any 
body  less  light-hearted.  Kay's  flying  hair  and  plunging  legs 


THE   TRICYCLE    MAKES   A   DISCOVERY    213 

would  have  attracted  attention  had  the  tricycle  been  ever  so 
new  and  handsome. 

Errand-boys  stood  still  and  whistled  after  them.  Trades 
men  followed  them  in  their  carts,  offering  to  race  them  and 
grinning  ridicule.  Very  frequently  insult  set  itself  to  the 
words  of  a  street  song  then  in  fashion : 

"It  won't  be  a  stylish  marriage ; 
For  I  can't  afford  a  carriage ; 
But  you'll  look  sweet  with  your  two  little  feet 
On  a  tricycle  made  for  two." 

What  did  Peter  care?  Ill-nature  failed  to  touch  him. 
Little  boys  who  pulled  faces  at  him  from  the  pavements, 
made  long  noses  at  him  or  stuck  out  their  tongues,  did  it 
in  envy.  He  wished  he  could  take  them  too.  So  he  and 
Kay  turned  their  heads  and  threw  back  laughter.  It  was 
fun — all  fun.  And  then  there  was  the  anticipation  of 
lunch ;  two  shillings  between  two  people  can  buy  so  much. 

Shortly  after  Jolly  Butcher's  Hill  the  country  began.  At 
Southgate  they  would  stop  to  see  their  cousins.  Riska  af 
fected  to  despise  their  means  of  traveling.  She  was  shoot 
ing  up  into  a  tall  girl,  like  her  mother;  she  was  darkly 
handsome  and  carried  herself  with  a  gipsy  slouch.  Jehane's 
philosophy,  of  teaching  her  girls  how  to  catch  men,  was 
already  beginning  to  take  effect.  Outside  the  cottage-gate 
she  had  a  little  table  from  which  she  sold  ginger-beer  to 
Cockney  cyclists.  She  did  it  to  make  pocket-money;  even 
as  a  child,  by  this  means  of  introduction  she  gathered  about 
her  a  group  of  boy-lovers.  She  was  learning  early  how 
to  attract  when  she  cared.  Her  mother  was  pleased  by  her 
foolish  conquests — in  the  rose-scented  air  of  the  cottage 
garden  they  seemed  very  guileless  and  humorous.  In  the 
presence  of  men,  whatever  their  years,  Riska  invariably 
tried  to  fascinate. 

"It's  an  instinct  with  her,  the  little  puss,"  said  Barring- 
ton  ;  "she  even  tries  to  make  love  to  her  old  uncle." 

It  was  a  subject  for  laughter  in  the  family. 

On  these  short  visits  Kay  and  Peter  saw  hardly  anything 


214  THE   RAFT 

of  Glory — she  was  doing  the  work.  Just  as  they  were  go 
ing  she  would  come  out  from  the  kitchen,  untying  her 
apron,  or  would  pop  her  head  out  of  a  bedroom  window  to 
shake  a  duster  and  smile  at  them.  Then,  as  the  pedals  be 
gan  to  turn,  Riska  would  sing  half-tauntingly,  and  Eustace 
and  Moggs  would  join  in  with  her  pipingly: 

"Daisy,  Daisy,  give  me  your  answer  true, 
I'm  half-crazy,  all  for  the  love  of  you. 
It  won't  be  a  stylish  marriage, 
For  I  can't  afford  a  carriage, 
But  you'll  look  sweet " 

The  words  would  be  lost  as  the  tricycle  lumbered  into 
the  sunshine  between  the  hedges. 

Kay  used  to  say,  when  she  was  very  little,  that  the  glad 
ness  went  into  her  feet  when  she  was  happy.  On  these 
expeditions  it  went  everywhere,  into  her  feet,  her  eyes,  her 
lips,  her  hands.  She  did  the  things  that  boys  do,  and  yet 
she  had  the  sweetness  of  a  girl.  She  ran  like  a  boy  and  she 
swam  like  a  boy.  She  was  a  darling  and  a  puzzle  to  Peter ; 
he  could  never  make  her  out.  He  was  always  trying  to 
put  her  dearness  into  words  and  always  failing. 

"Your  voice  is  like  the  laughter  of  birds,"  he  said. 

"But  why  do  you  love  me  so  much,  Peter?" 

He  slanted  his  eyes.  "Because  I  borned  you."  He  knew 
better  than  that  now. 

Sometimes  they  spoke  of  their  cousins. 

"I  did  something  horrid  this  morning." 

"Don't  believe  it." 

"Oh,  but  yes.  I  was  brushing  the  dust  off  my  shoes  in 
the  kitchen,  and  what  do  you  think  I  found?" 

"Hurry  up  and  tell  me." 

"That  Glory  hadn't  had  time  to  eat  her  breakfast  and 
that  some  of  the  dust  had  gone  into  her  plate  of  porridge." 

"Oh,  Peter !    How  careless !     Did  you  tell  her  ?" 

"She  came  in  and  saw  it.  You'd  never  guess  what  she 
said. — 'Never  mind,  old  boy.  One's  got  to  eat  a  peck  o' 


THE   TRICYCLE    MAKES   A   DISCOVERY    215 

dirt  before  one  dies.  So  mother  says.'  And  she  took  a 
spoon  and " 

"And  ate  it?" 

Peter  nodded,  trying  to  look  penitent,  but  laughing. 

Then  Kay  became  grave-eyed  and  asked  one  of  her  ques 
tions.  "But  do  you?" 

"Do  you  what?" 

"Have  to  eat  a  peck  of  dirt  before  you  die?" 

Peter  wriggled  his  toes  in  his  shoes  and  looked  down  to 
see  them  moving.  "Don't  know.  You  and  I  don't.  But 
that's  what  Glory  says." 

Having  learnt  to  walk  like  a  boy,  Kay  learnt  to  whistle. 
One  hot  summer's  afternoon  they  had  ridden  out  and  were 
lying  on  their  backs  in  a  field  tall  with  grass,  nearly  ready 
for  cutting.  Peter  had  almost  drowsed  with  the  heavy 
smell  of  the  wild  flowers,  when  he  sat  up  suddenly  and 
seized  his  sister  by  the  arm  quite  roughly.  She  was  only 
whistling  a  little  tune  softly  and  was  surprised  at  the 
strength  he  used. 

"Peterkins,  what's  the  matter?  You're  hurting.  I'm 
sure  you've  made  a  bruise." 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her  protest.  "Where'd  you  learn 
that?" 

"What?" 

"That  tune  you  were  whistling?" 

"Don't  know.  Just  made  it  up,  I  suppose.  I  never 
heard  it." 

"But  you  must  have." 

"But  I  haven't,  Peter."  She  was  frightened  by  his  ear 
nestness,  mistaking  it  for  anger. 

"Did  you  never  hear  it  in  the  cupboard  in  the  bedroom — 
the  one  that  was  yours  and  mine?" 

She  hardly  knew  whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  "You're  jok- 
ing." 

"I'm  not.    I'm  in  dead  seriousness." 

The  tears  came.  "I'm  telling  the  truth.  I  never  knew 
it  till  this  moment." 

"Whistle  it  again." 


216  THE    RAFT 

"I  can't.     I  forget  it." 

As  the  children's  legs  grew  stronger  they  went  further 
afield,  conquering  new  territory,  exploring  all  kinds  of 
dusty  lanes  and  by-roads.  They  had  turned  off  from  Pot 
ter's  Bar  to  Northaw,  working  round  through  Cough's  Oak 
to  Cheshunt  when  they  were  hailed  by  a  freckled  boy,  about 
Peter's  age,  who  sat  astride  a  gate,  playing  a  mouth-organ. 

"Hey,  kids!    Want  to  buy  anything?" 

They  jammed  on  the  brakes  and  addressed  him  from  the 
trike.  "Got  anything  to  sell?" 

"Nope.     Just  wanted  to  talk  and  had  to  say  something." 

"But  who  are  you  ?" 

"I've  lived  in  America  and  now  I'm  living  here  in  Friday 
Lane.  I've  often  seen  you  go  by." 

They  looked  round  to  discover  Friday  Lane ;  on  every 
side  was  a  sweep  of  country,  rolling  away  in  sun-dazzled 
fields  and  basking  woodlands. 

"But— but  it's  lonely  here." 

"Yup.  But  it's  lonelier  where  I  come  from.  Nothing 
but  Indians  and  prairie." 

Even  Indians  didn't  turn  them  aside ;  they  were  trying  to 
unravel  the  mystery  of  Friday  Lane. 

"Is  this  road  the  Lane?" 

"That's  the  Lane."  The  boy  pointed  with  a  brown  hand 
to  a  grass-grown  field-track  starting  from  the  gate  on  which 
he  sat  and  vanishing  between  a  line  of  tall  oaks — oaks  which 
had  probably  been  standing  when  the  land  was  part  of  the 
royal  chase. 

"But  there  aren't  any  houses." 

The  boy  laughed.  "Oh,  aren't  there?  There's  our  house, 
right  over  there,  out  of  sight." 

"And  who  are  you  ?"  Kay  and  Peter  asked  together. 

"I'm  Harry  Arran  and  the  house  belongs  to  my  brother. 
He's  the  Faun  Man ;  I  kind  o'  look  after  him  and  keep  him 
straight.  He's  a  wonder ;  you'd  be  lucky  if  you  knew  him." 

"We'd  like  to  know  him.  We'd  both  like  to  know  him 
very  much."  Again  they  spoke  together. 

The  boy  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  eyed  them. 


THE   TRICYCLE    MAKES   A   DISCOVERY    217 

"Don't  know  so  much  about  that.    I'm  very  particular  about 
my  brother.    I  don't  let  him  know  just  anybody." 

He  twisted  round  on  the  gate,  turning  his  back  on  them, 
and  re-commenced  playing,  giving  them  plainly  to  under 
stand  that  their  too  eager  interest  in  his  family  affairs  had 
made  conversation  undesirable 


CHAPTER   XXV 
THE  HAPPY  COTTAGE 

IT  was  the  way  in  which  the  boy  had  said  "just  anybody." 
Peter  gazed  beyond  the  gate  into  the  green  mysterious  depth 
of  country — an  Eden  from  which  he  was  excluded  by  that 
hostile  back.  His  eyes  followed  Friday  Lane:  it  ran  on, 
trees,  sunshine  and  shadows,  tremulous  with  the  wings  of 
birds,  a  canopied  track,  across  fields,  into  the  heart  of 
wooded  fairyland.  What  promises  lay  over  there?  A  voice 
of  ecstasy  kept  calling. 

Reluctantly  he  set  his  feet  against  the  pedals,  glanced 

across  his  shoulder  to  Kay  and  was  going  to  have  said 

Something  that  glistened  shot  down  her  cheek  and  swiftly 
vanished. 

Very  deliberately  he  dismounted.  Yankee-Doodle,  or  a 
tune  not  unlike  it,  was  being  played  at  the  moment.  He 
thumped  the  student  of  the  mouth-organ  in  the  place  from 
which  Eve  was  created.  Kay,  all  legs,  flushed  face  and 
blown  hair,  watched  from  the  back  seat  of  the  trike  the 
novel  sight  of  her  brother  being  violent. 

The  boy  tumbled  from  his  perch,  putting  the  gate  be 
tween  himself  and  Peter.  Yankee-Doodle  ended  abruptly — 
the  mouth-organ  slipped  from  his  hand.  The  freckled 
good  humor  of  his  face  changed  to  an  expression  of  amused 
and  fierce  intelligence.  It  was  his  way  to  be  amused  when 
he  was  angry  or  in  danger — Kay  and  Peter  were  to  learn 
that  later.  He  bobbed  in  the  grass,  recovered  his  fallen 
treasure,  rubbed  it  on  his  sleeve,  stuffed  it  into  his  knicker 
bockers'  pocket  and  grimaced  across  the  rail. 

"You're  a  fresh  kid." 

Peter  removed  his  cap ;  his  curly  hair  fell  about  his  f ore- 

218 


THE    HAPPY   COTTAGE  219 

head.  "You've  made  my  sister  cry,"  he  said.  His  hands 
were  clenched. 

One  leg  hopped  over  the  gate ;  then  another.  "I  haven't," 
the  boy  denied  stoutly. 

"You  have.    You  called  her  'just  anybody.'  " 

The  boy  stepped  into  the  road — a  pugnacious  little  figure. 
"Pshaw  !  What  of  it  ?  Girls  cry  for  nothing." 

Peter  drew  himself  erect.    "My  sister  doesn't." 

The  boy  raised  his  eyes  and  met  Kay's.  Ashamed  of 
himself,  but  more  ashamed  of  showing  it,  he  spoke  stub 
bornly,  "She's  doing  it  now." 

There  was  silence.  A  small  strained  voice,  which  sounded 
not  at  all  like  Peter's,  said,  "I  never  hurt  people.  I  never 
fought  in  my  life.  But  if  I  did  ever  fight,  I'd  like  to  punch 
your  head.  And — and  I  think  I  could  do  it." 

The  boy  lost  his  shame  and  became  happy.  "Guess  you 
can't.  Anyhow,  why  don't  you  have  a  shot  at  it?" 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  commenced  to  take  off 
his  coat  and  to  roll  up  his  shirt-sleeves.  He  did  it  with  an 
air  of  competence  which  was  calculated  to  intimidate.  All 
the  while  he  carried  on  a  monologue.  "So  he'd  like  to 
punch  my  head — my  head.  Why,  I  could  get  his  goat  by 
just  looking  at  him.  In  America  I've  licked  boys  twice  his 
size,  and  they  hadn't  curly  hair,  either."  He  faced  Peter, 
doubling  his  fore-arm,  and  inviting  him  to  feel  his  muscle. 
"See  that.  Say,  kid,  I'm  sorry  for  you. — Ready?" 

Peter  nodded;  before  his  nod  had  ended  something  hit 
him  on  the  nose.  He  threw  up  his  arms  to  defend  himself, 
but  the  something  seemed  all  about  him.  Always  smiling 
into  his  own  was  the  freckled  face  of  a  pleasant  looking 
boy — so  pleasant  that  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  it  was  he 
who  was  doing  the  hurting.  And  Peter — he  hit  back  val 
iantly  ;  but  somewhere  at  the  back  of  his  brain  he  kept  on 
seeing  pictures  of  the  boy  dead.  It  was  disconcerting; 
every  now  and  then,  when  he  should  have  pressed  home  his 
advantage,  he  shortened  his  blows  intentionally,  with  the 
strong  weakness  of  the  humanitarian. 

A  bird  rose  twittering  out  of  a  hedge.    From  a  meadow 


220  THE    RAFT 

across  the  road,  a  cow  hung  its  mild  head  over,  looked 
shocked,  switched  its  tail  disapprovingly,  mooed  loudly, 
swung  round  and  lumbered  away  uncertainly,  like  a  dis 
tressed  old  lady  with  gathered  skirts,  in  a  futile  endeavor  to 
bring  help. 

Peter  saw  it  all.  His  faculties  were  unnaturally  and 
desperately  alert.  It  was  odd  how  time  lengthened  its 
minutes — how  much  he  saw  and  heard :  the  deep  blue  still 
ness  of  sky-lagoons,  the  foam  and  wash  of  traveling  clouds, 
the  erect  and  listening  quiet  of  tree-sentinels  and  hedges, 
and,  somewhere  out  of  sight,  the  sigh-sigh-sighing  of  wind 
in  distant  country. 

There  was  a  cry  behind  him.  How  long  had  he  been 
fighting?  He  could  not  guess.  Between  himself  and  the 
boy  rushed  a  little  girl.  Her  small  hands  commenced  to 
beat  the  boy  furiously.  She  could  not  speak;  she  was 
choked  with  sobbing.  The  boy's  arms  fell  to  his  side ;  he 
let  her  aim  her  puny  blows  at  his  impudent  face,  making 
no  attempt  to  stop  her.  Suddenly  she  swayed  and  sank 
into  the  flowers  at  the  side  of  the  road.  Peter  stooped ; 
his  arms  went  about  her.  The  boy  looked  on,  gazing  from 
these  strange  invaders  to  the  waiting  trike.  It  was  he  who 
was  excluded  now.  He  wanted  to  say  something — opened 
his  mouth  several  times  and  halted.  At  last  he  stumbled 
out  the  words. 

"I'm — I'm  sorry.  And  you're  not  just  anybody."  And 
then,  "I  say,  you're  plucky  'uns — won't  you  shake  hands  ?" 

The  bird  came  back  to  the  hedge  and  dropped  into  its 
nest.  The  cow,  having  sought  help  in  vain,  looked  dis 
tractedly  into  the  road  and  saw  a  boy  pushing  open  a  gate, 
while  another  boy,  a  little  bruised  and  battered,  pushed  an 
ancient  tandem  tricycle  into  a  meadow,  and  a  small  girl, 
with  flushed  face  and  blowy  corn-colored  hair,  dabbed  her 
eyes  furtively  with  the  hem  of  her  dress. 

The  trike  had  to  be  hidden.  It  was  unlikely,  but  always 
possible,  that  it  might  be  coveted  by  tramps.  Friday  Lane 
lay  before  them.  The  boy  turned  to  them  with  abrupt 
frankness.  "Here,  what  your  names?" 


THE    HAPPY   COTTAGE  221 

"Mine's  Peter,  and  my  sister's  is  Kay." 

"Well,  Peter,  I  guess  I  hit  harder  than  I  meant.  But — 
but  I  reckon  you  could  have  punched  my  head  if  you'd 
chosen.  Didn't  get  warmed  up  to  the  work  before  she 
stopped  us — was  that  it?" 

They  were  up  to  their  knees  in  the  meadow-world ;  the 
air  was  full  of  kind  new  fragrances.  Peter's  eyes  were 
dreamy.  The  boy  rambled  on,  leading  deeper  into  the 
avenue  of  oaks,  so  that  already  the  first  straggling  fringe  of 
woods  commenced.  "My  brother's  like  that.  In  Alaska, 
when  the  dogs  took  to  fighting,  he'd  just  stand  still  and 
laugh  and  holler  at  them.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  when  he 
saw  that  they  were  eating  one  another,  he'd  go  clean  mad 
and  wade  in  among  'em  and  lay  'em  out  with  the  butt  of 
his  rifle.  He's  a  wonder,  my  brother." 

"I'm  sure  he  is,"  said  Peter,  and  Kay,  trotting  closely 
by  his  side,  repeated  his  words  to  show  her  interest. 

The  boy,  flattered  by  the  attention  of  his  audience,  with 
the  treachery  of  the  born  story-teller,  sharpened  their  ap 
petite  by  suspense.  He  wagged  his  head  mysteriously.  "I 
could  tell  you  heaps  about  him  if  you  were  to  come  here 
often." 

He  waited  to  see  what  effect  that  would  have.  Kay  had 
been  hiding  behind  her  brother,  clinging  to  his  hand.  Now 
she  came  level  with  him,  bending  her  face  across  him  so 
that  she  could  meet  the  eyes  of  the  boy.  She  asked,  "May 
we,  Peter?  Do  you  think  we  can?" 

"Not  often,"  said  Peter  guardedly;  "but  as  often  as  we 
can." 

The  boy  held  out  a  further  inducement.  "One  day  I 
might  show  him  to  you.  He's  like  that  with  dogs  and — 
and  especially  with  girls :  laughs  at  'em,  hollers  at  'em,  and 

then .  He's  the  most  glad-eyed  chap  that  ever  came 

down  the  pike,  I  reckon.  That's  what  gives  me  all  my 
trouble." 

Neither  Kay  nor  Peter  knew  exactly  what  was  meant. 
So  Peter  said,  "You've  been  everywhere,  haven't  you? 
And  we — we  just  tricycle  out  and " 


222  THE    RAFT 

The  boy  had  drawn  his  mouth-organ  from  his  pocket  and 
was  playing,  stamping  his  feet  and  swaying  his  body.  Sud 
denly  he  stopped  and  his  voice  took  up  the  air : 

"I've  been  shipwrecked  off  Patagonia, 
Home  and   Colonia, 
Antipodonia; 
I've  shot  cannibals, 
Funny   looking  animals, 
Top-knot  coons ; 

I've  bought   diamonds  twenty  a  penny   there, 
I've  been  somewhere,  nowhere,  anywhere — 
And  I'm  the  wise,  wige  man  of   the 
Wide,  wide  world." 

They  gazed  at  him  wide-eyed  in  the  hushed  summer 
woodland.  Then  they  beat  their  hands  together,  crying, 
"Oh,  again,  again,  please." 

The  boy  smiled  tantalizingly.  "Can  you  climb?"  He 
shot  the  question  out.  The  next  moment  he  was  scrambling 
lip  a  tall  oak.  Sometimes  his  body  was  lost  in  leaves. 
Sometimes  it  sounded  as  though  he  were  tumbling,  tum 
bling  through  the  branches  to  the  ground.  At  last,  from  a 
bough  high  up  where  the  sky  commenced,  his  impish  face 
gazed  down  on  them.  First  they  heard  the  mouth-organ, 
then  the  voice,  singing  of  somewhere,  nowhere,  anywhere — 
of  the  splendidly  imagined  No-Man's-Land  through  which 
every  child  has  longed  to  wander. 

And  they  believed  his  song,  as  though  it  were  autobi 
ography.  In  a  picture-flash  they  saw  the  world,  beautiful, 
tumultuous,  full  of  terrors — saw  it  as  a  vast  balloon,  swim 
ming  through  eternal  clouds,  painted  with  the  dreams  of 
young  desire :  islands  in  sun-drenched  seas,  where  palms 
stood  motionless,  pointing  to  the  skies  with  silent  hands; 
countries  of  yellow  men,  small  and  crafty,  who  lived  in 
paper  houses  and  fed  on  flowers ;  enfeebled  cities,  daz- 
zlingly  white,  whose  eyes  had  been  burnt  out  by  the  door 
of  hell  left  open  in  the  iron  heavens ;  and  snow-deserts 
•where  the  frost  carved  Titans  with  his  breath. 

This  freckled   pugnacious  master   of   the   mouth-organ, 


This  pugnacious  master  of  the  mouth  organ. 


THE    HAPPY   COTTAGE  223 

caroling1  a  street  song  in  the  tree-turrets  of  Friday  Lane, 
became  for  them  the  embodied  soul  of  adventure. 

The  boy  came  slithering  down.  Kay  watched  him,  how 
he  dangled  by  his  arms,  caught  on  with  his  legs,  dug  in 
with  his  toes,  got  himself  completely  dirty  and  always  saved 
himself  at  the  last  moment  from  falling. 

He  dropped  breathless  at  their  feet.  "It's  fine  up  there. 
Different  from  down  here.  Up  there  it  belongs  to  any 
body." 

Kay  wasn't  quite  sure  that  she  approved  of  him.  He  had 
ripped  his  coat,  and  it  didn't  seem  quite  kind  to  give  his 
mother  so  much  work.  She  spoke  reproachfully.  "D'you 
like  tearing  your  clothes  ?" 

He  gazed  at  her  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  with  a  sly 
expression.  "I  don't  mind.  Don't  need  to  mind — my 
clothes  are  magic.  They  mend  themselves." 

"Mend  themselves !"  She  tugged  at  Peter,  to  see  in  what 
spirit  he  was  accepting  this  amazing  assertion.  "Why, 
how  wonderful !"  And  then,  reluctant  to  show  doubt, 
"But— but  how  can  they?" 

The  boy  grinned  broadly.  "Not  really,  you  know — just 
pretence.  I — I  mend  them  myself.  I'm  an  awful  liar. 
Come  on  now." 

Confession  had  made  him  self-conscious;  he  darted 
ahead.  Kay  and  Peter  followed  slowly.  He  turned. 
"Aren't  you  coming?" 

It  was  Peter  who  answered.    "But  to  where?" 

"To  where  I  live — the  Happy  Cottage." 

Was  this  also  pretence?  The  name  sounded  too  good 
to  be  true — and  yet  it  was  the  kind  of  name  you  tried 
to  believe,  despite  yourself. 

The  boy  left  the  grassy  avenue  and  broke  into  the  under 
growth  of  woods.  He  went  in  front,  parting  the  branches 
for  Kay.  He  explained  to  them,  "Friday  Lane's  shorter, 
you  know;  but  this  other  way's  heaps  jollier." 

Presently  above  the  rustle  of  their  passage  they  heard 
a  little  singing  sound.  Sometimes  it  grew  quite  loud  and 
near  them;  sometimes  it  died  away  into  the  merest  breath. 


224  THE   RAFT 

It  was  like  someone  who  was  almost  asleep,  humming  over 
and  over  the  first  two  notes  of  a  tune  that  refused  to  be 
remembered.  Kay  snuggled  her  hand  into  Peter's ;  she  was 
a  little  scared.  Everything  was  so  dark  and  eerie.  The 
sound  drew  near  and  seemed  to  slip  away  from  under  her 
very  feet.  She  cried  out;  it  was  as  though  someone  had 
touched  her  and  had  vanished  before  she  could  turn  round. 

The  boy  heard  her  cry  and  looked  back.  He  nodded  re 
assuringly.  "It's  always  doing  that — plays  no  end  of  pranks. 
You  needn't  be  frightened ;  it  won't  hurt  you." 

"But  what  is  it?  What  won't  hurt  you?"  Peter  asked 
almost  angrily. 

The  boy  laid  his  finger  on  his  lips.  "The  wood's  haunted. 
That's  the  queen  fairy  calling.  There  are  all  kinds  of 
fairies  hidden  about  here.  When  you  see  them,  they  turn 
into  rabbits  and  birds,  and '  Because  Kay  had  cov 
ered  her  face,  he  stopped.  "I'm — I'm  an  ass.  It  isn't 
really,  you  know.  I  just  tell  myself  that." 

"Then  what  is  it?"  asked  Peter,  slightly  awed,  for  the 
voice  kept  on  singing. 

The  boy  laughed.  "It's  the  tiniest  little  river  that's  lost 
itself.  It  creeps  about  under  the  bushes  and  wriggles 
through  the  leaves  on  its  tummy,  trying  to  find  a  way  out." 

"And  does  it  find  it?"  asked  Kay,  plucking  up  her 
courage. 

"You  bet  you.    Wait  till  we  get  to  the  Happy  Cottage." 

And  all  of  a  sudden  they  got  there.  It  was  as  though  the 
little  river  had  led  them,  for  just  where  they  broke  out 
into  the  sunlight  it  rushed  past  them,  flashing  silver  and 
singing  merrily,  with  all  the  words  of  its  song  remem 
bered.  At  first  they  saw  a  green,  green  stretch  of  grass, 
over  which  the  yellow  of  cowslips  drifted  like  blown  gold- 
dust.  Then  they  saw  Friday  Lane,  with  its  tall  oaks  hold 
ing  back  the  woods,  like  big  policemen  marshaling  a  crowd 
when  a  procession  is  expected.  And  then  they  saw  the 
Happy  Cottage — a  bee-hive,  with  low-thatched  roof,  set 
down  in  a  refuge  of  flowers.  It  had  one  chimney,  from 
which  smoke  was  lazily  ascending;  and  it  must  be  logs 


THE    HAPPY   COTTAGE  225 

that  the  fire  was  burning,  for  the  air  was  filled  with  the 
indescribable  homey  smell  that  sets  one  dreaming  of  all 
the  country  cottages,  tucked  away  in  gardens,  and  all  the 
summer  happiness  he  has  ever  chanced  on. 

They  followed  the  little  stream  right  up  to  the  high  hedge 
which  went  about  the  Happy  Cottage;  they  crossed  it  by 
a  plank,  pushed  open  a  gate  and  entered.  Flowers,  flowers 
everywhere  and  the  banjo-music  of  bees  humming.  A  red- 
tiled  path,  moss-grown  and  edged  with  box,  led  through  a 
wilderness  of  beauty,  comfortably  untrimmed  and  neg 
lected.  The  door  of  the  cottage  stood  open ;  across  its 
threshold  lay  a  Great  Dane,  which  rose  up  and  growled 
at  sound  of  their  footsteps.  The  boy  called  to  him,  "All 
right,  Canute,  old  dog.  Come  here,  old  fellow." 

Canute  came  with  the  solemn  suspicion  of  majesty, 
ignoring  the  strangers,  and  placed  his  great  head  against 
his  master's  breast,  gazing  up  attentively. 

"Canute,  this  is  Kay  and  this  is  Peter.  They're  my 
friends.  You've  got  to  look  after  them.  D'you  under 
stand?" 

The  dog  blinked  his  eyes  and  turned  away  indifferently, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "Your  friends !  Humph !  We'll  see. 
Very  sudden !" 

"He's  always  like  that  with  newcomers,"  said  the  boy. 
"He's  very  particular  about  my  brother.  Guess  he's  think 
ing  what  I  said,  that  he  don't  let  the  Faun  Man  know  just 
anybody."  Fearful  lest  he  should  have  given  offence,  he 
made  haste  to  add,  "But  you're  not  just  anybody  any 
longer." 

The  door  opened  without  ceremony  directly  into  the 
living-room.  The  leaded  windows  were  pushed  back ;  roses 
stared  in  and  bent  inquisitively  across  the  sills,  spilling  their 
petals.  The  house  was  silent ;  it  was  like  stealing  into 
someone's  heart  when  the  soul  was  absent.  Guns  on  the 
walls,  brilliant  little  sketches,  golf-sticks  in  a  corner,  old 
oak  furniture,  a  mandolin  lying  in  a  chair — everything  be 
trayed  the  room's  habitation  by  a  strong  and  alluring  per 
sonality.  Peter,  looking  round,  became  conscious  of  a 


226  THE   RAFT 

spirit  of  loneliness  and  yearning.  On  the  walls  were  pic 
tures  of  many  beautiful  women,  but  in  the  house  itself 
were  no  signs  of  a  woman's  hands. 

The  boy  explained.  "He's  not  here  to-day.  He's  gone 
to  town.  This  is  where  we  play;  it's  upstairs  that  he 
works."  He  volunteered  no  information  concerning  the 
task  at  which  the  Faun  Man  worked.  Casting  his  eyes 
round  the  walls,  he  said,  "Those  are  all  his  girls.  Pretty! 
Oh,  yes.  But  they  give  me  an  awful  lot  of  trouble.  Want 
some  tea?  Yes?" 

He  went  out  into  the  kitchen  at  the  back.  He  let  the 
children  follow  him,  but  refused  their  offers  of  help.  "I'm 
a  rare  little  cook,  I  can  tell  you.  Had  to  be  on  our  ranch  in 
America — there  was  no  one  else.  You  just  watch  me." 

But  Kay  had  been  thinking.  She  had  supposed  that  there 

were  mothers  everywhere — that  every  boy  had  a .  She 

said,  "Where  are  your  mother  and  sisters?" 

He  looked  up  from  toasting  some  bread.    "Haven't  any." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "But — but  didn't  you 
ever  have  any?" 

He  answered  cheerfully,  not  at  all  sorry  for  himself, 
"Nope.  Not  that  I  remember." 

She  glanced  at  her  brother.  "Peter  and  I've  always 
been  together." 

Peter  added,  "So  that's  why  you  thought  girls  cried  for 
nothing?  You  don't  know  anything  about  them.  I 
shouldn't  have  been  angry." 

The  boy  winked  joyfully.  "Oh,  don't  I  know  anything! 
Leave  that  to  the  Faun  Man.  I  know  just  as  much  as  I 
want  to.  But  say,  I'd  have  liked  to  have  had  your  sister 
for  my  sister.  I  really  would  have." 

Kay  leant  over  his  shoulder  as  he  knelt  before  the  fire. 
"If  I  were  your  sister,  d'you  know  what  I'd  do  for  you? 
I'd  tell  you  not  to  climb  trees  and,  if  you  did  do  it,  I'd  mend 
your  clothes  for  you." 

He  told  them  something  of  his  history  as  they  sat  at 
table.  How  he'd  left  England  with  his  brother  when  he 
was  so  little  that  he  couldn't  remember.  How  he'd  lived  on 


THE    HAPPY   COTTAGE  227 

a  cattle  ranch  and  knew  how  to  ride  anything.  He  tried 
to  make  them  understand  the  freedom  and  the  solitariness 
of  his  life  in  those  wide  stretches,  where  there  weren't  any 
street  lamps  but  only  stars,  and  where  one  gazed  on  green- 
gray  grass  for  miles  and  never  saw  a  single  house.  And  he 
told  them  of  the  places  he  had  been  to — the  queerly  natural 
ghost  corners  of  the  earth,  Alaska,  Mexico  and  the  South 
Sea  Islands.  Every  now  and  then  his  imagination  would 
gallop  away  with  him.  Then  he'd  twist  his  head  and  stoop 
forward,  as  if  listening  for  the  first  expression  of  doubt. 
Before  it  came,  he  would  try  to  forestall  it  by  saying, 
"You  know,  that  last  part's  not  really." 

When  he  had  said  it  several  times  Kay  laughed  softly. 
The  boy  looked  up,  a  little  offended.  "What  is  it?" 

Her  eyes  were  dancing  with  happiness.  "You're — 
you're  a  very  pretence  person,  aren't  you?  Peter  and  I, 
we're  pretence  persons.  We're  always  going  to  one  place 
and  telling  ourselves  we're  going  somewhere  else." 

The  boy  sank  his  head  between  his  hands.  His  words 
came  timidly.  "It  makes  one  happy  to  pretend,  especially 
when  one's  always  been  lonely.  It's  like  climbing  a  tall  tree 
— it  belongs  to  anyone  up  there."  He  turned  slowly,  star 
ing  at  his  guests.  They  wondered  what  was  in  his  mind. 
At  last  he  said,  "I  wish — I  wish  you'd  call  me  Harry.  And 
please  don't  tell  me  where  you  come  from.  Let's  be  pre 
tence  persons  • I'd  like  to  be  your  friend." 

With  the  quaint  solemnity  of  childhood,  they  clasped 
hands.  Outside*  the  bees  played  their  banjo-music,  the 
flowers  whispered,  laying  their  faces  close  together,  and  the 
stream  ran  singing  past  the  cottage,  with  all  the  words  of 
its  song  remembered. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
THE   HAUNTED   WOOD 

LIFE  at  its  beginning  and  its  end  is  bounded  by  a  haunted 
wood.  When  no  one  is  watching,  children  creep  back  to  it 
to  play  with  the  fairies  and  to  listen  to  the  angels'  foot 
steps.  As  the  road  of  their  journey  lengthens,  they  return 
more  rarely.  Remembering  less  and  less,  they  build  them 
selves  cities  of  imperative  endeavor.  But  at  night  the  wood 
comes  marching  to  their  walls,  tall  trees  moving  silently  as 
clouds  and  little  trees  treading  softly.  The  green  host  halts 
and  calls — in  the  voice  of  memory,  poetry,  religion,  legend 
or,  as  the  Greeks  put  it,  in  the  faint  pipes  and  stamped 
ing  feet  of  Pan. 

We  have  all  heard  it.  Out  of  fear  of  ridicule  we  do 
not  talk  about  it.  Do  we  revisit  the  wood,  it  is  when  sleep, 
or  the  dream  of  death,  has  claimed  us  and  made  us  again 
children. 

Because  secrecy  adds  to  happiness,  Kay  and  Peter  told  no 
one  of  their  discovery.  In  the  early  morning  they  would 
tricycle  out  through  red-brick  suburbs,  where  nurse-girls 
wheeled  fretful  babies  in  prams  and  wondered  what  love 
meant.  Having  spent  their  day  in  fairyland,  they  would 
tricycle  back  through  those  same  brick  suburbs  where 
tethered  people  found  romance  in  twilit  reality.  They 
almost  feared  to  speak  aloud  of  their  doings,  lest  speech 
should  break  the  spell — lest,  were  they  to  tell,  they  might 
search  in  vain  for  Friday  Lane,  Canute,  and  Harry  of  the 
mouth-organ,  and  find  them  vanished. 

On  their  first  visits  they  did  not  meet  the  Faun  Man ; 
in  proportion  as  they  failed  to  meet  him,  they  grew  more 
curious  about  him.  Sometimes  they  were  quite  certain  he 

228 


THE    HAUNTED   WOOD  229 

was  there,  but  Harry He  was  strangely  reluctant  to 

share  him — as  reluctant  as  Peter  was  to  share  his  sister. 
And  yet,  in- all  the  rest  of  his  secrets  he  was  generous. 
He  showed  them  how  to  find  beneath  stones  in  the  river 
the  homes  of  fishes — tiny  fellows,  who  darted  away  with 
agitated  tails  the  moment  you  took  the  roofs  off  their 
houses.  And  he  showed  them  how  you  could  make  whis 
tles  out  of  boughs,  if  you  chose  the  right  ones.  He  taught 
them  to  mimick  the  notes  of  birds,  so  that  they  would 
follow  through  the  woods,  answering  and  hopping,  twist 
ing  from  side  to  side  their  perky  heads.  He  was  the  Pied 
Piper  of  the  open  world,  and  willing  to  make  them  his 
confederates.  "Where — where  did  you  learn?"  They 
asked  him.  Sometimes  he  looked  away  from  them,  narrow 
ing  his  eyes ;  sometimes  he  answered,  "The  Faun  Man — he 
taught  me."  So  the  Faun  Man  became  a  kind  of  god, 
whose  handiwork  was  seen  in  many  wonders,  but  who 
never  showed  himself. 

It  was  a  scorching  afternoon.  In  London  water-carts 
were  going  up  and  down ;  the  less  refined  portion  of  man 
kind  had  removed  their  collars  and  had  knotted  handker 
chiefs  about  their  necks.  Along  Green  Lanes  and  as  far 
as  Jolly  Butcher's  Hill,  costers  tempted  villadom  to  extrava 
gance,  crying,  "Strarberries.  Fresh  strarberries,"  in  voices 
grown  cracked  from  over-use  and  thirst.  It  made  one's 
throat  dry  to  listen  to  them.  The  tricycle  seemed  to  feel  its 
weight  of  years ;  despite  frequent  oiling,  it  insisted  on  run 
ning  heavily.  At  Aunt  Jehane's  house  they  halted  for  a 
rest;  then,  on  again.  The  country  drowsed:  big  trees  in 
the  meadows  seemed  to  fold  their  hands ;  birds  had  hidden 
themselves ;  there  was  scarcely  a  sound. 

When  they  came  to  the  gate  leading  into  Friday  Lane, 
Harry  wasn't  there.  Pushing  the  machine  behind  a  hedge, 
they  went  in  search  of  him.  They  called  his  name  and 
paused  to  listen.  He  had  tricked  them  before,  trying  to 
make  them  believe  that  they  wouldn't  find  him,  then  start 
ling  them  into  laughter  by  playing  his  mouth-organ  in 
a  tree  right  above  their  heads.  They  persuaded  themselves 


230  THE   RAFT 

that  that  was  what  was  happening  now.  Every  few  steps 
they  would  stop  and  look  up  into  the  boughs,  shouting, 
"We've  found  you.  We  know  where  you're  hiding-.  You 
may  as  well  come  down."  If  he  heard  them,  he  refused  to 
fall  into  their  trap. 

They  came  to  the  Haunted  Wood  and  entered.  In  its 
dark  green  shadows,  where  all  things  trod  softly,  they 
dared  not  shout.  They  whispered  their  assertion  that  they 
had  guessed  his  whereabouts.  Only  the  little  river  an 
swered,  now  mocking  them  secretly,  now  babbling  hoarsely, 
alarmed  that  it  would  never  get  out.  They  began  to  tiptoe. 
Fear  of  the  silence  seized  them.  A  branch  cracked ;  they 
only  just  saved  themselves  from  running.  It  seemed  as 
though  a  magician  had  waved  his  wand,  casting  a  spell ; 
everything  slept.  Everything  except  the  river — and  at  last, 
because  its  voice  was  solitary,  it  became  terrible,  like  that 
of  a  dying  man  in  a  shuttered  room,  who  muttered  deliri 
ously  and  tossed  upon  his  bed. 

The  green  stretch  of  grass,  with  the  cowslips  scattered 
over  it,  brought  relief  to  their  suspense.  But,  here  again, 
there  was  no  welcome.  Bees  hummed  above  the  flow 
ers,  quite  indifferent  to  their  presence.  The  bee-hive  cot 
tage  stood  with  door  and  windows  wide,  as  though  its 
inhabitants  had  been  called  away  suddenly  and  would  never 
return.  Beneath  the  smiling  of  the  summer  stillness  lay 
the  threat  that  something  evil  had  happened.  Even  Canute 
had  vanished. 

They  stole  round  the  house  and  at  last  crossed  the  thres 
hold.  Everything  was  as  they  remembered  it,  even  to  the 
mandolin  lying  across  the  chair.  They  listened.  Voices ! 
Yes,  certainly.  Then  laughter,  clear  and  pleasant ;  it  broke 
off  in  the  middle,  as  if  someone  paused  for  breath.  It 
came  from  the  Faun  Man's  room  overhead,  which  Harry 
had  never  invited  them  to  enter.  Hand-in-hand  they' 
climbed  the  stairs — steep  and  narrow  stairs,  which  ended 
abruptly  in  a  white  door.  They  tapped.  A  man  answered. 
Peter  raised  the  latch. 

The  ceiling  sloped  down  from  the  centre,  giving  to  the 


THE    HAUNTED   WOOD  231 

room  the  appearance  of  a  tent.  There  were  two  lattice- 
windows,  on  opposite  sides,  which  opened  outward  on  to 
the  thatch.  Against  one  of  them  stood  a  desk,  littered 
with  papers,  from  which  a  rush-bottomed  chair  had  been 
pushed  back.  A  pen,  lying  on  a  sheet  of  partly  written 
foolscap,  had  rolled  across  it,  leaving  blots,  as  if  the  writer 
had  put  it  down  and  turned  hastily  at  the  sound  of  some 
one's  entrance.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  there  was  a 
high-peaked  saddle  and  on  the  walls  a  strange  collection  of 
memories  and  travel — a  study  of  a  girl's  head  by  Rossetti, 
old  Indian  muskets  used  in  frontier  warfares,  a  pair  of 
sabres,  a  college  oar  with  the  names  of  the  crew  gilded  on 
it,  and  everywhere  the  faces  of  women.  Among  them  one 
face  occurred  often — Peter  had  noticed  its  frequence  on  the 
walls  downstairs.  And  now  he  saw  the  living  woman  be 
fore  him. 

She  was  dressed  in  white,  lying  on  a  rose-colored  couch, 
stretched  out  carelessly  full-length,  with  her  small  feet 
crossed.  Her  age  might  have  been  anywhere  from  twenty 
upward.  It  didn't  matter — one  forgot  years  and  only 
thought  of  youth  in  looking  at  her.  Was  not  Helen  past 
mid-life  when  two  continents  went  to  war  for  her  beauty? 
Somehow  she  reminded  one  of  Helen — was  it  the  way  in 
which  experience  mixed  with  artlessness  in  her  expression  ? 
The  mind  went  back.  Dr.  Faustus  might  have  addressed 
his  sonorous  lines  to  her: 

"Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a  thousand  ships? 
And  burnt  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium? 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss : 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul,  see  where  it  flies : 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again. 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heaven  is  in  these  lips." 

She  was  golden,  splendidly  negligent  of  what  was  happen 
ing  about  her,  insolently  languid  with  a  lazy  ease  that 
seemed  to  take  all  the  world  into  her  confidence  and  ac 
tually  shut  all  the  world  out.  She  was  a  lonely  tower  of 
snow  and  ice,  rosy  in  the  sunlight,  luring,  cold  and  inac- 


232  THE    RAFT 

cessible.  Her  eyes  were  intensely  blue  and  innocent.  She 
had  fine  teeth  and  an  almost  childish  mouth,  which  was 
contradicted  by  the  powerful  molding  of  her  chin  and 
throat,  and  the  capability  of  her  hands.  One  wondered 
what  difference  it  would  make  to  her  if  she  were  ever  to 
be  roused  by  love  or  anger.  She  was  built  on  heroic  lines, 
long  and  full  and  gracious,  yet  she  seemed  to  prefer  to  be 
treated  as  a  plaything.  One  arm  was  curled  beneath  her 
golden  head,  the  other  hung  down  listlessly  and  was  held  by 
a  man  who  was  pressing  the  hand  to  his  mouth.  Peter 
noticed  in  a  flash  how  the  woman  paid  no  attention  to  what 
the  man  was  doing.  And  the  man 

Peter  had  never  seen  anyone  quite  like  him.  He  was 
tall  and  strong  and  slender.  Even  though  he  was  kneeling, 
Peter  knew  that  he  must  be  of  great  height.  His  face 
was  smooth,  lean  and  tanned.  His  lips  were  thin — un 
usually  red  and  delicate  for  a  man's.  His  nose  was  straight 
and  arched  at  the  nostrils.  His  ears  were  set  far  back  and 
pointed.  But  it  was  by  his  eyes  that  Peter  recognized 
him  as  the  Faun  Man.  They  were  brown  and  filmed  over 
with  blue  like  a  dog's,  showing  scarcely  any  white.  They 
had  a  dumb  appeal  in  them,  a  hunger  and  melancholy  be 
cause  of  something  which  was  never  found,  which  the 
eager  happiness  of  the  rest  of  his  appearance  disguised. 
They  had  a  trick  of  veiling  themselves,  of  becoming  dull 
and  focusless,  as  though  the  spirit,  whose  windows  they 
were,  had  drawn  down  the  blinds  and  lay  drugged  with 
sleep  and  satiety.  Then  suddenly  they  would  flash,  become 
torches,  all  enthusiasm,  crying  out  that  there  was  no 
truce  in  the  forward  march  of  desire.  At  such  times  the 
face  became  extremely  young — as  young  as  his  long  fine 
hands.  Only  the  black  hair,  brushed  straight  back  from  the 
forehead  without  a  parting,  betrayed  his  age  by  the  gray 
which  grew  about  the  temples. 

The  golden  'woman  withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  and 
raised  herself  on  her  elbow  at  the  children's  entrance. 
She  gazed  at  them  doubtfully,  like  a  young  pantheress 
disturbed.  Her  red  mouth  pouted.  Her  blue  eyes  feigned 


THE    HAUNTED   WOOD  233 

a  laughing  shyness.  Only  one  small  foot,  tapping  against 

the  other,  told  of  her  impatience.  "Oh,  it  isn't I 

thought  it  was  Harry.  Who  are  they,  Lorie?" 

Her  voice  was  soft  and  caressing.  She  spoke  in  the 
"little  language"  which  mothers  learn  in  the  nursery.  In 
her  way  of  talking  there  was  a  guttural  quality  which 
marked  her  foreign  parentage. 

The  Faun  Man,  unabashed  by  the  unexpected  company, 
bent  toward  her  and  kissed  her  arm.  "I  don't  know,"  he 
laughed.  Then  he  turned  with  a  smile  that  was  all  courtesy 
and  kindness,  "Won't  you  tell  us?  Who  are  you?" 

Peter  didn't  answer  at  once.  He  was  fascinated.  He 
had  never  seen  a  man's  ears  move  like  that.  As  the  Faun 
Man  had  asked  his  question,  his  ears  had  pricked  up  as  a 
dog's  do  when  he  pays  attention.  And  then  there  was 

something  about  his  voice It  was  so  sad  and  intense. 

It  hurt  by  its  longing.  It  didn't  seem  right  to  meet  this 
man  in  a  house.  Peter  both  distrusted  and  liked  him — the 
way  we  do  nature. 

The  white  room  became  a  blur  as  he  gazed  into  the  soft 
brown  eyes.  Woods  and  meadows,  seen  distant  in  the  sun 
light,  became  flat  like  painted  canvases  hung  across  the 
windows.  Real  things  grew  vague,  or  took  on  the  aspect 
of  artificiality.  The  question  came  again.  "Tell  us,  little 
chap.  Who  are  you  ?" 

Peter's  brain  cleared.  "If  you  please,  we're  friends  of 
Harry,  the  boy  with  the  mouth-organ." 

The  golden  woman  leant  forward,  resting  her  hand  in 
timately  on  the  Faun  Man's  shoulder.  She  was  interested 
and  her  face  became  gentle.  "Harry's  friends !  But  we're 
in  disgrace  with  Harry.  He's  run  away  with  Canute  be 
cause — because  he's  jealous.  He  wants  his  big  brother  all 

to  himself What  shall  we  do  with  them,  Lorie?  I 

think  we'll  have  to  make  them  our  pals." 

Kay  had  been  hiding  behind  Peter  in  the  doorway.  She 
looked  round  him  timidly,  still  ready  for  escape.  "But — but 
will  Harry  come  back?" 


234  THE   RAFT 

The  concern  in  her  voice  made  the  woman  clap  her 
hands.  "He  always  comes  back.  Men  always  do  come 
back,  don't  they,  Lorie  ?"  She  slipped  her  feet  off  the  couch 
and  came  across  the  room.  "What  a  dear  little  girl !" 

Kay  looked  up  at  her,  willing  to  be  frightened.  Then 
her  arms  reached  up  and  the  woman  stooped  over  her. 
"You're  nice,"  she  said. 

"Have  you  been  here  often?"  It  was  the  Faun  Man 
speaking. 

Peter  thought.  He  tried  to  reckon.  "Not  often,  but 
several  times." 

The  Faun  Man  took  him  by  the  shoulders,  looking  down 
on  him.  Seen  that  way,  from  below,  he  seemed  tremend 
ously  high.  "You  needn't  be  afraid,  young  'un ;  I'm  not 
angry.  You  won't  get  Harry  into  a  row.  Where  d'you 
come  from?" 

"Come  from !"  Peter  laid  his  fingers  on  the  thin  brown 
hand.  "Would  you  mind  very  much  if  I  didn't  tell?  You 
see,  Harry  doesn't  know.  It's  such  fun — we're  just  pre 
tence  people.  We  tricycle  out  from — from  nowhere  on  a 
tandem,  Kay  and  I.  And  then  we  meet  Harry  and  leave 
the  trike  behind  a  hedge  and  go  into  the  Haunted  Wood 
together.  You  see,  if  Harry  doesn't  know  who  we  are, 
it's  almost  as  though  we  were  fairies,  and  as  though  he 

were  a  fairy,  and  we •  You  know  what  I  mean :  we 

meet  in  fairyland,  and  can  do  what  we  like  with  the  world." 

The  Faun  Man  turned  his  head.  "Eve,  did  you  hear 
that  ?  He  wants  to  do  what  he  likes  with  the  world.  He's 
one  of  us." 

But  Eve  had  Kay  on  her  lap  and  her  lips  were  in  her 
silky  hair.  Something  had  happened  to  her — something 
difficult  to  express.  She  had  melted.  With  the  child 
pressed  against  her  bosom,  she  looked  a  mother — very 
young  and  good.  As  the  Faun  Man  watched  her,  his  eyes 
became  tender — oddly  tender. 

"Eve.     Eve." 

He  went  over  to  her  and  took  her  hand.     She  lifted  her 


THE    HAUNTED   WOOD  235 

face  to  his.  "If  you  hadn't  kept  me  waiting •  "  He  got 

no  further. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"I  was  thinking  the  same,"  she  said ;  "and  yet •  " 

"And  yet?"  he  questioned. 

She  drew  Kay  nearer  to  her.  "Where's  the  good  of 
talking.  We've  talked  so  often — so  often." 

He  went  to  the  open  window  and  stared  out.  A  butter 
fly  flew  in  and  alighted  on  his  forehead.  He  took  no 
notice;  he  stood  rigid  like  a  man  of  stone.  A  little  muscle 
in  his  cheek  kept  twitching;  his  arms  hung  straight  down 
and  the  ringers  worked  against  the  palms  of  his  hands. 
Seen  on  either  side  of  him,  in  two  narrow  strips,  was  the 
basking  unimprisoned  country,  which  rolled  on  marvelously, 
this  visible  landscape  building  into  the  next,  and  the  next 
into  all  the  others  that  lay  beyond  the  horizon,  continents, 
seas  and  wonderlands,  like  a  carpet  of  ever-changing  pat 
tern  wrapped  about  the  world  for  his  feet  to  tread.  And 
he,  without  bonds,  was  a  prisoner. 

He  swung  round.  To  Peter's  surprise  he  was  laughing. 
His  dark  face  was  narrow  in  mockery.  "Come  on,  young 
'un,"  he  said ;  "let's  get  out." 

He  had  to  double  himself  up  to  pass  down  the  low- 
ceilinged  stairway.  Peter  followed ;  in  leaving  the  room, 
he  glanced  back.  The  golden  woman  had  raised  her  eyes — 
the  eyes  of  a  child  who  has  been  selfish  and  has  wounded 
itself.  She  was  fondling  Kay,  as  though  she  thought  that 
her  kindness  to  the  little  girl  would  atone  for  her  unkind- 
ness  to  the  man. 

As  he  crossed  the  living-room,  the  Faun  Man  picked 
up  the  mandolin  from  the  chair.  He  did  not  walk  through 
the  garden;  he  walked  into  it.  That  was  his  way  with 
everything.  Leaving  the  path,  he  pressed  waist-deep 
through  roses  and  fuchsias,  scattering  their  blooms  and 
petals.  Like  soldiers  approving  his  lawlessness,  sunflowers 
swayed  their  golden  heads  and  nodded.  Swarms  of  winged 
insects,  whose  homes  he  had  disturbed,  rose  up  in  busy 


236  THE    RAFT 

protest.  His  face  was  wrinkled  with  determination  to  be 
glad — to  be  glad  whatever  might  lie  in  the  future.  In  the 
heart  of  the  fragrant  nature-world  he  halted,  and  sat  down 
on  the  hard-baked  earth.  He  looked  like  a  great  supple 
hound  with  his  legs  crouched  under  him.  Through  the 
walls  of  their  house  of  leaves  and  blossoms  they  could  see 
the  window  of  the  room  they  had  left. 

The  Faun  Man  commenced  to  tune  his  mandolin.  "Ever 
been  in  love,  Peter?" 

The  boy  reddened.  He  didn't  know  why  he  reddened. 
Perhaps  he  was  proud  that  he  should  be  asked  such  a  ques 
tion.  Perhaps  he  was  a  little  angry  because — well,  because 
everyone  he  had  ever  met  seemed  a  little  ashamed  of  love — 
everyone  except  the  Faun  Man.  So  he  answered,  "Only 
with  my  little  sister." 

The  man  laughed.  "That  isn't  what  I  meant.  That's 
different.  Love's  something  that  burns  and  freezes.  It 
fills  you  and  leaves  you  hungry.  It  makes  you  forget  all 
other  affections  and  keeps  you  always  remembering  itself. 
It  makes  you  kindest  when  it's  most  cruel.  It  demands 
everything  you  possess ;  and  you're  most  eager  to  give  when 
it  gives  you  nothing  back.  It's  hell  and  it's  heaven.  No, 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  It's  a  small  child  pulling  the  wings 
off  a  fly,  and  then  crying  because  it's  sorry,  and  didn't 
know  what  it  was  doing.  Ah,  Peter,  Peter,  you  haven't  met 
love  yet."  He  bent  forward  and  tapped  him  on  the  arm. 
"Be  wise.  Run  away  when  you  see  love  coming." 

Peter  felt  embarrassed.  The  Faun  Man  closed  one  eye 
and  watched  him — watched  how  the  sun  splashed  through 
the  creeping  shadows  and  fell  on  the  boy's  flushed  face  and 
curly  hair.  "Here's  a  little  song  about  love,"  he  said.  "A 
very  high  class  song,  written  not  improbably  by  the  poet 
Shelley." 

He  struck  the  strings  of  the  mandolin,  playing  a  little 
jingling  introduction  and  then  commenced,  lifting  his  long 
face  to  the  window  in  the  thatch,  singing  through  his  nose 
and  burlesquing  all  that  had  happened : 


THE    HAUNTED    WOOD  237 

"If  yer  gal  ain't  all  yer  thought  'er, 
And  fer  everyfing  yer've  bought  'er 
She  don't  seem  to  care  a  'appenny  pot  o'  glue ; 
If  she  tells  yer  she  won't  miss  yer 
And  she  doesn't  want  ter  kiss  yer, 
Though  yer've  cuddled  'er  from  'Ammersmif  ter  Kew ; 
If  yer  little  side  excurshiums 
To  lands  of  pink  nasturtiums 
Don't  make  'er  'arf  so  soft  as  they  make  you, 
Why,  never  get  down-'earted, 
For  that's  the  way  love  started — - 
Adam  ended  wery  'appy — and  that's  true." 

He  had  scarcely  finished,  when  the  golden  woman  came 
to  the  lattice  in  the  thatch.  She  stood  framed  there,  with 
the  whiteness  of  the  room  as  a  background.  Her  hands 
were  crossed  upon  her  breast.  The  shining  masses, 
wrapped  about  her  head  and  forehead,  accentuated  her 
vivid  paleness.  She  looked  as  idealized  as  a  girl  on  can 
vas,  put  there  by  her  lover  in  a  bid  for  immortality.  She 
glanced  this  way  and  that  to  discover  the  Faun  Man.  She 
leant  out,  listening  and  searching.  She  could  not  detect 
him. 

"Lorie,"  she  cried,  addressing  the  garden,  "you're  un 
kind.  I  hate  you  when  you're  flippant."  She  waited  for 
him  to  answer.  Nothing  but  silence,  and  the  little  river 
whispering  to  itself  beyond  the  hedge.  "Lorie,  I  suppose 
you  think  I've  got  no  right  to  talk  about  being  flippant, 

because •      But  I'm  not  flippant.     I  like  you,  and — 

But  I  can't  help  myself  if  God  made  me  as  I  am."  Again 
she  waited.  "Lorie,  I'll  be  awfully  nice  to  you  if  you'll 
only  show  yourself.  I  do  so  want  to  see " 

The  Faun  Man  stood  up  ecstatically,  with  his  arms 
stretched  out  to  her.  It  was  absurd  to  call  him  a  man. 
The  pollen  of  flowers  had  smirched  his  face  and  hands. 
His  head  was  bare,  and  the  hair  had  fallen  forward  over 
his  forehead. 

"I'm  crying  for  the  moon,"  he  chanted,  "and  because 
she  won't  come  down  to  me  I'm  calling  her  names — saying 
that  she's  a  Gorgonzola  cheese  flying  through  the  heavens." 


238  THE   RAFT 

"My  Lord,"  laughed  the  golden  woman — she  pronounced 
it  Looard,  in  her  most  foreign  accent ;  "what  an  imagina 
tion  you  have !" 

"Jump  down,"  urged  the  Faun  Man ;  "I'll  catch  you,  little 
Eve.  I'd  catch  you  and  carry  you  anywhere." 

She  thought  and  slowly  shook  her  head,  as  if  she  had 
been  considering  his  suggestion  as  a  feasible,  if  unconven 
tional,  plan  of  descent.  "I'd  rather  trust  the  stairs." 

"You'd  rather  trust  anything  than  trust  me,"  he  said 
ruefully ;  "but  I  don't  care,  so  long  as  you  do  come  down." 

She  was  leaving  the  window,  when  she  turned  back. 
"What  was  that  silly  song  you  were  singing?" 

He  answered  her  promptly.  "Words  by  Shelley.  Ac 
companied  by  Lorenzo  Arran.  Title,  'A  Bloke  and  'is 
'Arriet.'  Scene  laid  in  London.  All  rights  reserved." 

She  pulled  a  face,  exceedingly  provocative  and  naughty. 
"Words  by  Shelley,  indeed !  But  I  can  believe  all  the 
rest." 

She  vanished. 

The  Faun  Man  turned  to  Peter.  "You  see,  young  fel 
low,  it's  as  I  told  you.  Love's  always  like  that.  It  comes 
to  a  window  and  looks  down  at  you.  You  hold  out  your 
arms  to  it  and  say,  'I  want  you.'  Love  came  to  the  window 
that  you  might  say  that ;  but  the  moment  you  say  it,  love 
shakes  its  head.  If  you  told  it  to  walk  decently  down  the 
stairs  to  you,  it  would  immediately  fling  itself  over  the 
sill  and  toboggan  down  the  thatch.  You're  fool  enough 
to  say  to  it,  'Slide  down  the  thatch,'  and  it  immediately 
walks  decently  down  the  stairs.  If  I  were  you,  Peter,  I'd 
never  fall  in  love  with  anybody." 

Then  Peter  surprised  himself ;  he  mimicked  something 
he  had  just  heard.  "My  Looard !"  he  said,  "I'm  never 
going  to." 

The  Faun  Man  held  his  sides  and  threw  back  his  head, 
laughing  loudly.  That  was  how  the  golden  woman  found 
him  when  she  came  with  her  arm  about  Kay's  neck.  She 
halted  on  the  path,  six  feet  away,  smiling  at  him  across  the 
barricade  of  flowers.  She  cuddled  the  little  girl  closer  to 


THE    HAUNTED   WOOD  239 

her.  "Aren't  men  funny,  Kay?"  And  then,  slanting  her 
face  and  stooping  with  her  neck,  "Lorie,  you  queer  boy, 
what's  the  matter  now?" 

The  Faun  Man  waded  through  the  roses  to  her,  catch 
ing  her  by  the  shoulders  and  bending  over  her.  "Peter's 
the  matter.  I  was  telling  him  never  to  fall  in  love  with 
anybody,  because — well,  because  love's  cruel  and  only  looks 
out  of  a  window  in  order  to  go  away  and  leave  the  window 
vacant.  And  what  d'you  think  he  said  ?  Tm  never  going 
to.'  He  said  it  sharply  like  that,  as  if  I'd  been  telling 
him  never  to  be  a  pickpocket.  Fancy  a  little  boy  having 
made  up  his  mind  never  to  walk  in  the  sunlight  because  the 
sunlight  scorches." 

"Ah,  but  he  did  not  mean  it."  She  spoke  as  though 
Peter  had  been  unkind,  and  had  said  that  he  would  not 
love  her.  "But  he  did  not  mean  it,"  she  repeated,  tilting 
Peter's  face  up  in  her  hollowed  hand.  "And  love  isn't 
cruel — he  mustn't  believe  what  Lorie  says.  Love  is  the 
flowers  and  the  dusk  falling,  and  the  sound  of  birds  and 

rivers,  and  the  dearness  of  little  children.  Love  is 

How  shall  I  put  it?  Love  is  eyes  in  the  head.  Without 
love  one  can  see  nothing." 

Peter  gazed  into  her  eyes.  She  was  charming.  He  felt 
as  though  he  had  hurt  her.  And  he  felt  that,  if  he  had 
hurt  her,  he  ought  to  go  all  across  the  world  on  his  knees 
and  hands  till  he  obtained  her  forgiveness.  He  remem 
bered  afterward  that,  when  her  eyes  were  on  his,  he  saw 
nothing  but  blue — just  her  eyes  and  nothing  else. 

"He  didn't  mean  it,  did  he?"  she  coaxed. 

In  a  very  small  voice  he  answered,  "I  did  mean  it.  You 
see,  there's  Kay;  I  have  to  love  her." 

"But  some  man  may  love  Kay  presently — may  take  her 
away  from  you.  What  then?" 

Peter  had  never  thought  of  that.  He  wouldn't  think  of 
it  now,  just  as  years  later  he  refused  to  face  up  to  it.  "Kay 
would  never  allow  anyone  to  take  her.  Would  you,  Kay?" 

Kay  shook  her  head.    "I  only  want  Peter." 

She  freed  herself  from  the  golden  woman  and  went  and 


240  THE    RAFT 

stood  beside  her  brother  with  her  arm  about  him — an  arm 
so  small  that  it  wouldn't  come  all  the  way  round. 

The  man  and  woman  stared  at  them.  Here  was  some 
thing  outside  their  experience.  They  had  found  hard 
knocks  in  the  world  and  occasional  stolen  glimpses  of  ten 
derness — not  a  tenderness  which  one  could  carry  about  as 
a  thing  expected,  could  arrange  life  by,  and  refer  to  as  to 
a  timepiece  in  the  pocket.  Both  were  conscious  of  a  hol- 
lowness  in  their  living.  And  the  woman — she  had  dreaded 
permanency  in  affection  lest  it  should  become  a  chain  to 
gall  her. 

A  shadowy  hurdler,  very  distant  as  yet,  over  trees  and 
fields  and  hedges,  evening  came  vaulting.  No  one  could 
hear  his  footsteps,  only  the  panting  of  his  breath.  He  was 
racing  from  the  great  red  door  in  the  west,  from  which 
he  had  slipped  out — racing,  with  his  head  turned  across 
his  shoulder,  as  though  he  feared  to  see  a  presence  on  the 
burning  threshold  and  to  hear  a  voice  that  would  call  him. 
The  small  applauding  hands  of  leaves  moved  gently.  The 
red  door  sank  lower.  Snared  in  the  branches  of  the 
Haunted  Wood,  it  came  to  rest. 

Far  away  and  out  of  sight,  deep-toned  and  mellow,  came 
the  lowing  of  cattle  and  the  staccato  barking  of  a  dog, 
driving  the  herd  to  the  milking.  One  by  one  live  things 
of  the  country-side  commenced  to  wake  and  stir.  Rabbits 
hopped  out  among  the  cowslips  and  nibbled  at  the  turf. 
Birds,  like  children  put  to  bed  and  frightened  of  being  left, 
called  "Good-night.  Good-night.  Good-night,"  over  and 
over.  From  watch-towers  of  tall  trees  mother-birds  an 
swered,  "Good-night.  Good-night.  Good-night."  The 
world  had  become  maternal.  The  spirit  of  life's  brevity,  of 
parting,  of  remembrance,  of  regret,  of  happiness  withheld 
was  in  the  air.  The  golden  woman  felt  her  loneliness. 
Looking  at  the  children,  so  defiant  in  their  sureness  of  one 
another,  she  recalled  her  lost  opportunities. 

An  arm  stole  about  her.  A  brown  hand  covered  hers. 
She  leant  back  her  head  so  that  it  lay  against  the  Faun 
Man's  jacket.  So  many  things  seemed  worth  the  seeking 


THE    HAUNTED   WOOD  241 

in  this  world — so  few  worth  the  keeping  when  found.  For 
the  moment  she  liked  to  fancy  that  her  search  was  at  an 
end. 

Peter  spoke.  "If  you  please,  I  think  we  must  be  going". 
I've  got  to  get  Kay  back,  you  know.  Even  now,  I'll  have 
to  light  the  lamps." 

"But — but  we  haven't  seen  Harry." 

A  light  woke  in  the  golden  woman's  eyes.  She  was 
about  to  speak ;  the  Faun  Man  pressed  his  hand  against  her 
mouth.  "You  can  see  him  to-morrow,  little  girl,  if  Peter 
will  bring  you." 

"But  where  is  he?" 

The  Faun  Man  swept  the  horizon.  "Somewhere  over 
there.  He's  gone  away  into  the  wood  with  Canute,  because 
we  hurt  his  feelings." 

"But  what's  he  doing?"  Kay  insisted. 

The  Faun  Man  looked  at  the  golden  woman;  his  eyes 
asked,  "Shall  we  tell  ?"  They  turned  back  to  Kay.  "What's 
he  doing?  Sitting  with  his  head  in  his  hands.  Crying, 
perhaps- —  Do  boys  cry,  Peter?  He  doesn't  like  his 
brother  and  this  little  woman  to  be  together.  The  poor 
old  chap  doesn't  think  we  do  each  other  any  good." 

"And  do  we?"    The  golden  woman  spoke  softly. 

The  Faun  Man  became  very  solemn.  His  voice  was 
husky.  "We  don't.  But  we  could." 

She  twisted  round  in  his  embrace  so  that  she  met  him 
breast  to  breast.  "Ah,  there's  the  voice  of  every  tragedy! 

We  don't.  But  we  could And  we  know  we  could ; 

and  yet  we  don't." 

Down  the  garden,  over  the  plank-bridge,  across  the 
meadow,  through  the  Haunted  Wood  they  went  together : 
the  boy  and  girl,  like  lovers  with  arms  encircling;  the  man 
and  woman,  like  brother  and  sister,  holding  hands,  brush 
ing  shoulders,  and  following.  As  they  entered  into  Friday 
Lane,  Kay  looked  back.  At  the  foot  of  a  big  oak  Canute 
was  lying,  his  nose  between  his  fore-paws,  his  eyes  red- 
rimmed  with  vigilance. 


242  THE    RAFT 

She  tugged  on  Peter's  arm.  "Why  he  must  be  up  there. 
Oh,  do  let's  be  nice  to  him.  Just  one  minute.  Let's." 

But  when  they  approached,  the  dog's  back  bristled  and  he 
growled.  He  lifted  his  black  lip,  showing  the  whiteness 
of  his  fangs.  His  sullen  eyes  were  on  the  golden  woman. 
Like  one  embittered,  who  had  ceased  to  believe  that  virtue 
could  be  found  anywhere,  he  regarded  all  four  of  them  in 
anger. 

The  Faun  Man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "When  he 
climbs  trees  that  means  he's  getting  better.  There's  no 
sense  in  worrying  him ;  he  won't  come  down  till  he's  ready." 

"Good-night,"  Kay  called  to  him  with  piping  shrillness. 

"Good-night,"  called  Peter. 

And  again,  when  the  tree  was  growing  small  in  the  dis 
tance,  Kay  shouted,  "Good-night,  Harry.  We've  missed 
you." 

From  up  in  the  clouds,  very  faint  and  little,  came  the 
sound  of  a  mouth-organ  playing  the  wander-tune  of  ro 
mance  : 

"I've  been  ship-wrecked  off  Patagonia, 
Home  and  Colonia 
Antipodonia ; 
I've  shot  cannibals, 
Funny-looking  animals, 
Top-knot  coons. 
I've  bought   diamonds  .  .  ." 

Their  memories  set  the  tune  to  words. 

The  old  tandem  trike  was  trundled  out  from  its  hiding 
place  behind  the  hedge.  The  Faun  Man  lifted  Kay  on  to 
her  seat  at  the  back ;  Peter  mounted.  All  was  ready. 

"So  you're  riding  away  from  fairyland,"  sighed  the 
golden  woman.  "Foolish !  Foolish !  It's  so  easy  to  do 

that And  when  you've  gone  and  until  you  come  again, 

there  won't  be  any  fairyland.  It's  so  easy  to  ride  away; 
so  difficult  to  come  back." 

Kay  thought  that  a  doubt  was  being  cast  on  Peter's 
cleverness.  "It  isn't  difficult  at  all,"  she  protested ;  "not  if 
you  have  a  tandem  tricycle  and  a  big  brother  like  Peter." 


THE    HAUNTED   WOOD  243 

The  golden  woman  laughed  with  her  hand  against  her 
throat.  "But  I  hav'n't  a  tandem  tricycle,  and  I  hav'n't  a 
big  brother  like  Peter." 

Kay  knew  she  hadn't;  she  wondered  what  made  the 

golden  woman  say  that,  and yes,  why  she  choked  at 

the  end  of  her  words. 

"Good-by  till  we  come  again." 

They  rang  their  bells  as  a  parting  salutation.  The  wheels 
began  to  turn.  They  disappeared  between  the  hedges  down 
the  road,  a  vision  of  plunging  legs,  bent  backs  and  flying 
hair. 

The  man  and  woman  were  left  alone  on  the  highway  be 
tween  the  Haunted  Wood  and  the  town,  to  both  of  which 
these  children  had  such  ready  access. 

Slowly,  slowly  the  sun  was  vanishing:  once  a  ball  of 
fire;  now  the  boldness  of  sight  on  which  an  eye-lid  was 
closing;  at  last  a  glory  to  be  taken  on  faith  and  conjecture. 
The  country  became  vague  as  though  seen  through  water. 
Its  greenness  had  a  coolness  which  was  more  than  color; 
which  had  to  be  realized  by  a  spiritual  sense.  The  even 
ing  dimness,  like  the  hand  of  death,  removed  sharp  tem 
porary  edges  from  the  landscape  and  revealed  an  expres 
sion  which  was  timeless,  which  had  been  always  there. 
Birds  had  ceased  calling.  The  moon  floated  out — the  soul 
of  the  night,  high-lifted  and  inspired.  Trees  sought  to 
touch  her  with  their  fingers ;  she  slipped  by  them,  unhur 
ried  by  their  effort. 

He  had  said  so  much  to  her  in  the  past  with  his  eager 
lips  and  words.  Now,  for  some  time,  he  had  been  saying 
everything,  while  seeming  to  say  nothing. 

He  held  her  pressed  against  him.     "Ah  dearest " 

She  stirred.    "But  I'm  not  good." 

"You  are.     But  you're  not  kind  to  me  often." 

"Not  often/'  she  murmured. 

He  stooped;  in  the  darkness  he  could  say  it — the  old, 
old  question  which,  through  repetition,  had  lost  its  gener 
osity  and  splendor.  "Am  I  never  going  to  make  you  love 
me?" 


244  THE    RAFT 

She  turned  her  face  away,  so  that  his  kiss  fell  on  her 
neck.  "I  don't  know,  don't  know,  Lorie?  How  should  I? 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  you.  You  do  believe  me  when  I 
say  that?  But  I'm  fickle.  I'm  not  at  all  what  you  think 
me.  I'm  all  wrong  somewhere  inside — cold  and  bad- 
hearted." 

He  laid  his  cheek  against  hers,  holding  her  more  tightly. 
"Little  Eve.  Please !  You  shan't  accuse  yourself.  It 
wounds." 

She  broke  away,  but  only  that  she  might  return  of  her 
self.  She  caught  him  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and  tip 
toed  against  him.  "But  I  am.  Harry's  quite  right  to  hate 
me.  I  send  you  on  long  journeys,  and  you  can't  forget  me. 
I  won't  love  you  myself,  and  I  keep  you  from  loving  an 
other  woman.  You  offer  me  your  soul,  and  I  allow  you  to 
go  thirsty.  I  torture  you,  and  give  you  nothing." 

He  spoke  very  gently,  for  the  first  time  honest.  "I  can 
put  it  in  fewer  words :  you  want  to  be  loved ;  you  won't 
pay  the  price  of  loving.  Isn't  that  it?" 

She  pressed  her  golden  head  against  his  shoulder  in 
ashamed  assent.  Behind  her  shuttered  eyes  she  had  the 
vision  of  a  long  white  road  leading  up  to  a  city,  of  a  curly- 
headed  boy  and  an  elfin-girl  steering  through  the  traffic 
beneath  street  lamps.  She  wanted  to  have  the  palm  with 
out  the  dust,  to  be  a  mother  without  the  sacrifice  of  having 
children.  Seeing  the  vision  of  children  going  from  her,  and 
knowing  that  he  would  understand,  she  whispered,  "One 
day  I  shall  be  old — and  I  shall  have  missed  all  that." 

"Poor  little  Eve  !     Poor  little  girl !" 

He  picked  -her  up  in  his  arms  and  commenced  to  walk 
through  the  twilight,  across  fields,  to  the  cottage. 

She  raised  her  hand  and  touched  his  cheek.  "You  won 
derful,  strong  Faun  Man." 

He  halted  in  his  stride  and  bent  over  her;  then  went  on 
into  the  shadows. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 
PETER   FINDS   A   FAIRY 

AT  the  Faun  Man's  birth  an  angel  and  a  witch  attended. 
The  angel  brought  him  the  supreme  gift  of  making  people 
love  him.  The  witch  made  the  gift  fatal,  by  wishing  that 
he  might  be  loved  not  as  a  man,  but  as  a  woman  is  loved — 
with  jealousy.  So  his  friends  were  all  enemies  to  each 
other  because  they  had  to  share  him.  Even  Canute  was 
like  that ;  he  had  to  be  chained  when  admirers  were  calling. 

Strange  company  invaded  the  Happy  Cottage.  Women 
predominated — women  who  tried  to  treat  the  Faun  Man  as 
their  property.  They  wore  fluffy  gowns  and  had  fluffy 
manners ;  even  their  voices  were  fluffy.  Their  attitude 
was  that  of  princesses  who  had  journeyed  into  the  wilder 
ness  to  borrow  something.  They  were  a  little  annoyed  by 
the  country,  and  found  it  dirty.  Very  few  of  them  ad 
dressed  him  as  Mr.  Arran ;  each  invented  a  pet-name  for 
him,  which  seemed  to  make  him  hers  peculiarly.  They 
were  all  consumed  with  a  desire  to  touch  him  and  to  go 
on  touching  him,  beating  about  him  like  birds  about  a  light 
house  which  shines  out  hospitably,  but  permits  no  entrance. 
Most  of  them  mingled  with  their  admiration  a  concerned 
and  respectful  sorrow.  His  lonely  manner  of  living  moved 
them  to  the  depths.  They  formed  individual  and  brilliant 
plans  for  the  glorious  reconstruction  of  his  future — plans 
which  these  female  geographers  handed  to  him  boastfully, 
as  though  they  were  maps  of  fascinating  lands  which 
awaited  his  exploring.  For  satisfactory  exploration  the 
presence  of  the  female  geographer  was  necessary. 

Peter  was  usually  forewarned  that  an  invasion  was  in 
progress  by  the  crescendo  cackling  which  rushed  out  from 


246  THE   RAFT 

doors  and  windows  into  the  basking  stillness  of  the  garden. 
Then  he  would  hear  the  mild  protest  of  the  Faun  Man, 

"But,  my  dear  lady,  my  dear  lady — but  really "  Harry 

would  meet  him  by  the  hedge,  his  face  flushed  and  his 
mouth  sulky.  Jerking  his  thumb  across  his  shoulder  he 
would  whisper,  "The  Hissing  Geese!  Hark  at  'em!  Ain't 
it  sickening?"  Sometimes  he'd  call  them  the  H.  G.  for 
brevity.  He  called  them  that  because  of  the  way  in  which 
they  sat  round  his  brother  with  their  necks  stretched  out, 
all  making  sounds.  He  hated  them  unreasonably,  and 
hated  them  to  excess  when  they  tried  to  curry  favor  with 
him  by  kissing.  And  yet,  it  was  silly  of  him;  with  a  few 
years  added  to  his  age,  he  would  have  found  most  of 
them  pretty  and  quite  suitable  for  loving. 

Surliness  on  these  occasions  gave  Harry  a  strong  sym 
pathy  for  Canute.  If  he  had  been  a  dog  and  unrestrained 
by  chivalry,  nothing  would  have  pleased  him  better  than 
to  have  bitten  the  ladies'  legs.  He  felt  that  it  was  unjust 
to  chain  Canute  up  as  a  reward  for  his  loyalty.  So  usually, 
when  Kay  and  Peter  had  arrived,  the  three  of  them  would 
sneak  round  the  cottage  to  the  kennel  and  attempt  a  rescue. 
Then  came  the  exciting  escape  through  the  garden,  crouch 
ing  low  and  stealing  behind  the  flowers  so  as  not  to  be 
observed,  holding  on  to  the  collar  of  the  Great  Dane  for 
fear  he  should  break  away  and  glut  his  anger.  Some 
times  they  were  heard  above  the  rattle  of  tea-cups  and 
the  ladies  would  bunch  themselves  in  the  cottage  window, 
like  a  nosegay,  with  the  Faun  Man  in  their  centre.  Then 
would  follow  a  series  of  high-pitched  questions  and  ex 
clamations,  fired  off  for  the  sake  of  noise.  "What  dear 
children!  Is  that  your  sister?  Are  they  both  your  broth 
ers?  What  a  perfectly  sweet  dog!" 

The  "perfectly  sweet  dog"  would  growl  and  show  his 
fangs,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Leave  me  out  of  it.  Look  after 
your  legs.  I  wish  I  had  half  a  chance  of  showing  you 
how  perfectly  sweet  I  am." 

Where  did  they  all  come  from,  these  amorous  butterfly 
excursionists?  Harry  kept  his  mouth  shut.  He  wasn't 


PETER    FINDS    A    FAIRY  247 

going  to  tell,  only •  Well,  he  hinted  that  they  might  be 

insincere  experiments  of  the  golden  woman,  sent  to  sup 
plant  her — sent  because  she  knew  they  couldn't  do  it.  "And 
jolly  good  care  she  takes  not  to  send  the  right  one.  Trust 
her."  Harry  said  it  in  a  growl  which  he  copied  from 
Canute. 

It  wasn't  until  they  had  entered  the  Haunted  Wood  and 
the  green  wall  of  bushes  and  make-believe  had  shut  out 
intruders,  that  his  ruffled  spirit  regained  its  levity.  Then 
he'd  light  a  fire,  and  play  at  Indians  who  had  taken  their 
revenge  in  scalps.  Presently,  if  the  Faun  Man  had  been 
lucky  in  getting  rid  of  his  worries,  he  would  join  them. 
They  would  boil  a  kettle  and  have  tea  in  the  open,  after 
which  the  Faun  Man  would  light  his  pipe  and  smoke  it, 
lying  flat  on  his  back.  They  knew  what  to  expect.  Soon 
he  would  sit  up,  press  his  tobacco  down  with  a  lean  finger, 
pluck  a  twig  out  of  the  fire  and  use  it  as  a  match.  Then, 
very  deliberately,  he  would  begin,  "I  remember,  once  upon 
a  time." 

What  a  lot  of  magnificent  things  had  happened  once 
upon  a  time  that  he  could  remember !  He  had  chased 
cattle  thieves  across  the  border  and  had  come  up  with  them, 
intending  to  shoot  if  necessary,  only  to  find  them  such 
human  fellows  that  he'd  parted  friends.  "Human"  was 
his  word  for  describing  the  kind  of  people  he  liked,  many 
of  whom  were  disreputable.  One  night,  when  camping  in 
the  Canadian  Rockies,  a  hundred  miles  from  anywhere,  a 
stranger  had  crept  from  the  forest  and  shared  his  supper 
and  blanket.  They  had  talked  of  London,  London  street- 
songs  and  Leicester  Square,  till  the  stars  were  going  out. 
Next  morning  he  was  wakened  by  a  member  of  the  North 
West  Mounted  Police  who  was  hunting  a  murderer.  The 
fugitive  had  already  vanished.  "A  pity  he'd  killed  some 
one,"  said  the  Faun  Man ;  "he  was  one  of  the  most  charmin' 
chaps  I  ever  met.  Oh  yes,  he  was  caught  and  hanged." 

The  Faun  Man  had  played  hide-and-seek  with  death  in 
many  quaint  corners  of  the  world — getting  his  "liver  into 
whack,"  he  called  it,  and  gathering  "local  color."  What  lo- 


248  THE    RAFT 

cal  color  might  be,  and  why  anyone  should  want  to  gather 
it,  Peter  didn't  understand.  But  he  learnt  that  its  gathering 
took  you  down  into  Mexico  in  search  of  secret  gold,  where 
Indians  hid  behind  rocks  and  potted  at  you  with  poisoned 
arrows,  and  that  it  took  you  up  to  Fort  Mackenzie  with 
dogs  to  the  very  edge  of  the  Arctic.  While  he  listened  to 
these  stories  of  adventure,  the  shadows  of  the  Haunted 
Wood  lengthened,  the  river  sang  more  boldly,  evening  fell, 
and  the  fire,  from  a  pyramid  of  leaping  flames,  became  a 
hollow  land  of  scarlet  which  grew  slowly  gray,  fluttering 
with  little  tufts  of  ashen  moss  and  ashen  feathers,  until 
it  at  last  lay  charred  and  dead. 

The  Faun  Man  captured  Peter's  imagination  and  affec 
tions.  He  filled  him  with  strange  new  longings.  He  sent 
his  spirit  reaching  out  after  unattainable  perfections,  whose 
lure  and  desire  are  both  the  glamour  and  torture  of  child 
hood.  He  made  Peter  want  to  be  a  man,  so  that  he  might 
be  like  him.  The  Faun  Man  was  a  stained-glass  window 
which,  when  looked  through,  tinted  and  intensified  life's 
values.  Peter  was  going  through  the  experience  of  hero- 
worship  which  comes  to  most  boys  when  sex  is  dawning, 
and  they  have  not  yet  realized  that  its  sole  and  splendid 
meaning  is  that  woman  shares  the  same  world. 

And  yet  there  were  moments  when  Peter  almost  feared 
his  friend ;  his  character  was  a  sand-desert  in  which  the 
track  followed  yesterday  was  soon  wiped  out.  One  day 
he  would  cry,  "Ah,  I  know  him!"  and  the  next,  "I  know 
nothing."  The  whole  passionate  urgency  of  a  child's  heart 
in  friendship  is  to  know  everything. 

But  the  Faun  Man  was  too  big  and  elusive  to  be  known 
by  one  person.  Four  walls  could  not  contain  him.  He 
came  into  a  house  like  a  half-tamed  animal — but  where  had 
he  been,  where  had  he  come  from?  He  had  tricks,  curious 
tricks,  which  linked  him  to  the  creatures  which  make  their 
homes  in  the  leaves  and  holes  of  the  earth.  He  seldom 
sat  on  chairs,  but  huddled  himself  on  the  floor  while  he 
talked  to  you.  He  could  sit  for  an  hour,  saying  nothing. 
In  the  middle  of  a  conversation  he  would  jump  up  and  go 


PETER    FINDS   A    FAIRY  249 

out  without  apology,  as  if  he  heard  a  voice  which  you  had 
not  heard.  And  he  had.  The  sound  of  the  wind  told  him 
something,  the  altered  note  of  a  thrush,  the  little  shudder, 
scarcely  perceptible,  that  ran  through  the  flowers ;  to  him 
they  all  said  something.  If  you  asked  him  what  they  said, 
he  could  not  tell  you.  So  it  was  no  good  wanting  him 
to  belong  to  you ;  he  belonged  out  there. 

To  Peter,  who  had  always  been  smiled  at  for  his  com 
passion,  it  was  comforting  to  find  some  one  as  compassion 
ate  as  himself.  It  removed  the  dread  of  abnormality. 
There  was  a  nightingale  which  used  to  come  every  evening 
to  sing  in  an  apple-tree  near  the  Happy  Cottage.  They  used 
to  wait  for  the  romance  of  its  silver  voice  slanting  across 
the  velvet  dusk,  as  though  it  were  a  thing  to  be  seen  rather 
than  heard.  One  night  they  waited;  it  did  not  come. 

The  Faun  Man  grew  nervous.  He  could  not  rest;  at 
last  he  went  in  search  of  it  with  Peter.  Beneath  the  apple- 
tree  they  found  it  still  warm,  with  its  wings  stretched  out. 
And  then  the  unexpected  happened.  Kneeling  in  the  twi 
light  beside  the  dead  singer,  as  though  music  had  departed 
forever  from  the  earth,  the  Faun  Man  wept. 

And  yet  the  same  man  could  be  harsh  in  anger — that 
was  how  Peter  found  the  fairy.  On  entering  the  cottage 
one  afternoon  he  heard  the  sound  of  sobbing  upstairs  and 
a  voice  protesting,  "I  didn't  mean  to  do  it.  She  drove  me 
mad — you  and  she  together.  You  don't  care  for  me — don't 
care  for  me;  and  I  love  you  be-etter  than  anything  in  the 
world.  Oh,  do  forgive  me,  kind  Faun  Man." 

A  pause.  Peter  knew  she  was  on  her  knees  before  him, 
kissing  his  hands.  It  was  as  though  he  could  see  her  doing 
it.  "But  you  did  mean  to  do  it,  Cherry."  It  was  the  Faun 
Man  speaking  deliberately  and  coldly.  "You  did  it  on  pur 
pose.  It  was  stupid  and  babyish  of  you.  It  didn't  do  her 
any  harm,  and  it  didn't  do  you  any  good.  I  don't  want  to 
see  you,  and  I  don't  like  you  any  longer." 

A  passionate  voice  declared,  "If  you  say  that  again,  I'll 
kill  myself." 

Again  a  pause.    The  door  overhead  opened ;  a  wild  thing 


250  THE    RAFT 

came  tearing  down  the  stairs.  Peter  had  a  vision  of  some 
thing  in  skirts,  something  with  an  intense  white  face,  tragic 
gray  eyes  and  a  mass  of  black  flying  hair.  He  was  bumped 
into.  In  stepping  backward  he  tripped  against  a  chair. 
When  he  picked  himself  up  and  looked  out  into  the  garden 
she  had  disappeared — all  he  heard  was  the  running  of  her 
swift  feet  growing  fainter  and  fainter. 

He  gazed  about  the  room,  wondering  what  he  ought  to 
do.  Should  he  steal  back  quietly  to  where  he  had  left 
Kay  and  Harry,  and  pretend  that  he  had  seen  nothing? 
His  attention  was  arrested.  So  that  was  what  had  caused 
the  disturbance?  Every  portrait  of  the  golden  woman  had 
been  torn  from  its  place  on  the  wall  and  trampled.  While 
he  hesitated,  he  heard  the  Faun  Man  descending.  It  was 
too  late  to  go  now. 

The  Faun  Man  entered  without  seeing  him.  His  face 
was  stern ;  two  deep  lines  stretched  like  cuts  from  the  nos 
trils  to  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  He  looked  leaner  than 
ever.  He  was  already  stooping  over  the  ruined  portraits 
when  Peter  addressed  him.  "Won't  you  ever  forgive  her? 
Please  do.  Never  to  forgive  a  person,  not  forever  and  for 
ever,  seems  so  dreadful." 

The  Faun  Man  jumped ;  his  eyes,  when  they  turned  on 
Peter,  were  the  eyes  of  a  stranger.  "And  where  did  you 
come  from?  And  who  asked  you  for  your  opinion?  You'd 
better  get  out" 

When  he  came  to  the  plank  which  crossed  the  little 
river,  Peter  halted.  Down  Friday  Lane  he  could  hear  the 
mouth-organ  and,  looking,  could  see  Harry  beating  time 
with  one  hand  while  Kay  danced  to  it.  No,  he  didn't  want 
to  join  them.  Harry  would  laugh  at  him  for  paying  heed 
to  one  of  the  Faun  Man's  moods.  And  Kay — why,  if  she 
guessed  that  he  was  unhappy,  of  course  she'd  become  un 
happy,  too .  And  that  girl — she'd  said  that  she  was 

going  to  kill  herself.  He  ran  across  the  meadow  to  the 
Haunted  Wood.  She  must  be  there.  She  shouldn't  do 
it. 

Just  where  he  entered,  he  stooped  and  picked  up  some- 


PETER    FINDS    A    FAIRY  251 

thing  white.  She  had  dropped  her  handkerchief,  so  he 
knew  that  he  was  on  the  right  track.  He  followed  on  tip 
toe,  afraid  lest,  if  he  overtook  her  suddenly,  he  might 
scare  her.  In  the  stealth  of  the  pursuit  a  novel  excite 
ment  came  upon  him.  His  eyes  were  glowing.  His  breath 
came  and  went  pantingly.  He  had  removed  his  cap;  his 
curly  hair  lay  ruffled  on  his  forehead.  He  went  forward 
timidly,  half-minded  to  turn  back,  ashamed  lest  he  might 
find  her  looking  at  him.  As  he  penetrated  deeper,  the  still 
ness  grew  and  magnified  every  sound.  Overhead  the 
branches  were  woven  closer  together,  shutting  the  sun 
light  out.  An  air  of  secrecy  gathered  round  him.  Birds, 
hopping  out  of  his  path  under  bushes,  looked  back  at  him 
knowingly.  They  knew  what  he  did  not  know  himself. 

Out  of  sight,  beyond  him,  there  was  the  sound  of  mov 
ing.  Leaves  rustled;  silence  settled  down.  They  rustled 
again.  He  followed.  Then  he  heard  the  voice  of  the 
river — a  little  voice  which  grew  louder.  It  sang  to  itself 
softly.  It  seemed  to  be  trying  to  say  something.  Did  it 
sing  in  lurement  or  warning?  Now  it  seemed  to  be  say 
ing,  "Turn  back,  turn  back,  turn  back" ;  and  now .  But 

he  couldn't  make  out  the  words. 

He  lifted  his  face  above  a  clump  of  shrub-oak  and  found 
his  eyes  peering  into  hers.  She  was  too  startled  to  jump 
back  from  him;  she  gazed  wide-eyed,  with  lips  parted  and 
one  hand  plucking  at  her  breast.  She  saw  a  boy,  swift  and 
straight  as  an  arrow,  a  boy  who  seemed  to  stand  tiptoe  with 
eagerness,  who  had  the  grace  and  strength  of  a  Greek 
runner  and  the  smooth  skin  and  gentle  mouth  of  a  girl. 

And  Peter  in  looking  at  her  saw  a  white  face,  sensitive 
as  a  flower's ;  and  a  mouth,  red  as  a  cherry,  long  and  droop 
ing  and  curved ;  and  two  great  gray  eyes,  clear  and  wistful 
in  expression ;  and  over  the  eyes,  dark  brows,  like  a  bird's 
wings  spread  for  flight.  Her  black  hair  had  broken  loose 
and  hung  about  her  shoulders,  giving  her  a  touch  of  wild- 
ness.  Across  the  whiteness  of  her  forehead  it  brooded  like 
a  cloud.  In  the  green  church  of  the  wood  she  seemed 
sacred  to  Peter. 


252  THE    RAFT 

She  laughed  throatily,  breaking  the  suspense.  "Oh,  it's 
only  you." 

Peter  stepped  out  of  the  underbrush.  Then  he  saw  that 
she  had  removed  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and  was  stand 
ing  on  the  edge  of  the  little  river.  Her  feet  were  wet  and 
as  small  as  her  hands.  They  looked  cold  as  marble  in  the 
green  dusk.  Why  was  it?  More  than  anything  else,  the 
sight  of  her  feet  made  him  unhappy  for  her,  made  him  want 
to  care  for  her,  made  him  want  to  bring  a  smile  to  her 
mouth. 

"Yes,  it's  only  me,"  he  said ;  "but — but  I  wish  it  wasn't. 
I'm  sorry." 

She  tossed  her  head,  as  though  she  were  indignant  with 
him  for  being  sorry,  but  she  looked  at  him  slantingly,  curi 
ously  and  kindly.  "Why  should  you  be  sorry?  You  don't 
know  who  I  am  ?  You're  not  sorry ;  you  only  say  that." 

He  protested.  "But  I  am.  I  didn't  mean  to  overhear; 

but,  you  know,  I  heard  what  you  said I  was  afraid 

you'd  do  it." 

She  sat  down,  trailing  her  feet  in  the  water.  She  was 
smiling  now,  secretly  and  to  herself,  as  if  she  didn't  want 
him  to  know  it.  "It's  too  little,"  she  pouted.  "I  couldn't 
drown  in  that." 

Peter  seated  himself  at  her  side,  with  his  knees  drawn 
up  to  his  chin.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  with  an  air  of  grave 
confession.  "I'm  awfully  glad  it  was  too  little." 

She  turned  her  head,  looking  at  him  from  under  her 
long  lashes  provocatively;  but  he  was  staring  straight  be 
fore  him  with  vacant  eyes,  as  if  something  very  sweet  and 
awful  were  happening.  She  reached  out  her  hand  and 
touched  him;  she  noticed  how  he  trembled.  "And  if  it 
hadn't  been  too  little,  it  wouldn't  have  mattered — not  to 
you." 

He  didn't  answer  her  immediately.  When  he  spoke  it 
was  slowly,  as  if  each  word  hurt  as  he  dragged  it  out.  "It 
would  have  mattered,  because  then  you  wouldn't  have  been 
in  the  world." 


PETER   FINDS   A   FAIRY  253 

"But  you  didn't  know  that  I  was  in  the  world  this  morn- 
ing." 

He  shook  his  head,  as  much  as  to  tell  her  that  her  ob 
jection  was  quite  beside  the  question.  "I  know  that.  But 
I  think  I  should  have  missed  you  just  the  same,  without 
knowing  exactly  what  I  was  missing." 

She  laughed  outright,  swaying  against  him  and  burying 
her  hands  in  the  green  things  growing.  "You  are  funny — 
yes,  and  dear.  I  never  met  a  boy  like  you.  You  didn't 
really  think ?" 

He  gazed  at  her  wonderingly.  Each  time  he  looked  at 
her,  he  found  something  new  that  was  beautiful.  It  was 
her  throat  this  time,  long  and  delicate  like  a  Lent  lily.  As 
he  watched  it,  he  could  see  how  the  laughter  bubbled  up 
inside  it;  he  longed,  with  the  instinct  of  a  child,  to  lay 
his  fingers  on  it. 

"You  didn't  really  think ?" 

He  nodded.  "That  you  were  going  to  kill  yourself  ?  Yes 
— and  weren't  you?" 

She  ceased  laughing.  "I  don't  think  so.  I'm  such  a 
coward.  And  then,"  she  commenced  laughing  again,  "kill 
ing  yourself  is  such  a  worry — you  can  only  do  it  once  and, 
if  you're  not  careful,  you  don't  look  pretty.  I  always  want 
to  look  pretty.  Do — do  you  think  I'm  pretty?" 

He  choked  and  swallowed.  His  mouth  was  dry.  He 
couldn't  bring  his  voice  to  the  surface.  She  drooped  her 
face  away  from  him,  pretending  to  take  offense.  "You 
don't.  I  can  see  that.  You  needn't  tell  me." 

His  words  came  with  a  rush.  "I  do !  I  do !  I  think, 
when  God  made  you,  He  must  have  said  to  Himself,  'I'll 
make  the  most  beautiful  person — the  most  beautiful  person 
I  ever  made.'  It  was  something  like  that  He  said." 

His  quivering  earnestness  made  her  solemn.  She  hadn't 
meant  to  stir  him  so  deeply.  "What  an  odd  way  of  saying 
things  you  have.  I  don't  suppose  God  cared  much  about 
my  making.  He  just  had  me  manufactured  with  the 
rest." 


254  THE    RAFT 

A  warm  hand  slipped  into  hers  and  a  shy  voice  whis 
pered,  "He  made  you  Himself.  I'm  certain." 

She  gazed  at  him,  at  the  narrow  sloping  shoulders  and 
the  shining  curly  head.  She  felt  very  much  a  woman  at 
the  moment — years  older  than  the  handful  of  months  which 
at  most  must  separate  them.  She  laid  her  cheek  against  his 
and  slid  her  arm  about  him.  "I'm  so  glad  you're  not  a 
man." 

He  stared  straight  before  him.    "I  shall  be  soon." 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Sixteen  next  birthday." 

She  drew  him  nearer  to  her.  He  was  so  young  as  that ! 
"How  old  d'you  think  I  am?" 

He  searched  her  face,  trying  to  make  her  as  near  his  own 
age  as  possible,  and  not  to  be  mistaken.  "Sixteen?"  he 
suggested. 

"Almost  seventeen,"  she  said ;  "I'll  soon  be  twenty,  And 
then- 

"And  then,"  he  interrupted,  "I'll  be  eighteen — almost  a 
man." 

She  withdrew  her  face  from  his.  "Stupid.  I  don't  want 
you  to  be  a  man.  When  you're  a  man,  I  shan't  like  you; 
you'll  become  hard  and  masterful  like  .  .  .  like  the  rest." 

"I  shan't." 

She  relented.  "No.  I  don't  think  you  will.  But  then 
it'll  be  all  different." 

Yes,  it  would  all  be  different.  Peter  had  been  a  child 
when,  in  the  early  summer,  he  had  stumbled  on  the  Happy 
Cottage.  Until  then  he  would  have  been  perfectly  con 
tented  to  have  gone  on  living  at  Topbury  and  to  have  been 
fifteen  forever.  It  had  scarcely  occurred  to  him  that  child 
hood  was  a  preparation  which  would  soon  be  ended.  He 
had  never  looked  ahead — never  realized  that  he,  with  all 
the  generations  of  boys  who  had  lived  before  him,  must 
one  day  be  a  man.  In  a  vague  way  he  had  known  that 
once  his  father  and  mother  had  been  young  and  protected, 
as  he  and  Kay  were  young  and  protected.  But  it  had 
seemed  a  fanciful  legend.  And  now  the  great  change, 


PETER   FINDS   A   FAIRY  255 

which  formerly  he  would  have  dreaded,  he  yearned  for. 
The  ignorance  and  inexperience  of  being  young,  the  habit 
grown  people  had  of  treating  him  as  a  person  of  no  serious 
importance,  galled  him.  It  had  begun  with  the  Faun  Man 
and  his  desire  to  be  like  him.  It  was  ridiculous  when  he 
imagined  his  own  appearance,  but  he  wanted  to  be 
respected.  These  longings  had  not  come  home  to  him  be 
fore — they  had  been  a  gradual  growth  of  weeks  and 
months.  It  was  contact  with  a  vitalizing  personality  that 
had  done  it,  and  listening  to  talks  of  strange  lands  and  the 

doings  of  strong  men.    And  now  this  girl .    To  her  he 

was  no  more  than  amusing.  She  could  do  and  say  to  him 
things  that  she  would  never  do  or  say  to  men.  Yes,  when 
he  was  older  it  would  all  be  different.  She  had  wakened 
him  forever  from  the  long  and  irrecoverable  sleep  of  child 
hood.  He  might  dose  again,  but  he  could  never  sink  back 
into  its  deep  unruffled  calm  and  indifference.  Was  it  this 
that  the  river  had  tried  to  tell  him,  when  he  had  heard  it 
singing,  "Turn  back,  turn  back,  turn  back"?  It  still 
sang,  going  round  the  white  feet  of  the  girl  in  little  waves 
and  eddies,  but  its  voice  was  indistinct,  like  that  of  an  old 
prophet,  who  -mumbles  a  forgotten  and  disregarded  mes 
sage. 

The  girl  at  his  side  stirred.    "What  do  they  call  you?" 
And  he  returned  the  question.     She  leant  her  head  away 
from  him  on  her  shoulder.     "What  do  you  think  they  call 
me?     What  name  would  suit  me  best?     But  you'd  never 
guess.     They  call  me  Cherry,  because  my  lips  are  red." 

Cherry,  because  her  lips  were  red !  And  who  were  they, 
who  had  called  her  that?  He  felt  jealous  of  them.  They 
knew  so  much  about  her;  he  knew  nothing.  And  here  was 
the  supreme  marvel,  that  for  years  she  had  been  walking 
in  the  same  world  and,  until  now,  he  had  found  no  hint  of 
her.  He  might  have  passed  her  in  the  street — might  have 
come  often  within  touching  distance  of  her.  Some  of  this 
he  tried  to  say  to  her ;  she  listened  with  a  faint  smile  about 
her  mouth.  He  fell  silent,  fearing  that  he  had  amused  her 
by  his  sentiment. 


256  THE    RAFT 

She  patted  his  hand.  "D'you  know,  you're  rather  won 
derful?  You  put  such  private  thoughts  into  words.  Do 
you  always  think  behind  things  like  that?"  Without  wait 
ing  for  him  to  reply,  she  continued,  "But  you  never  passed 
me  in  the  street.  You  couldn't  have  met  me  any  earlier, 
because  I've  lived  always  in  America.  I  was  born  there. 

That's  where  I  met ."  She  did  not  name  the  Faun 

Man,  but  her  face  clouded.  "I  must  be  getting  back,"  she 
ended  vaguely. 

Outside  the  wood  he  would  lose  her — lose  her  because 
she  had  belonged  to  other  people  first.  He  would  become 
again  a  schoolboy,  tricycling  out  into  the  country  with  Kay. 
It  would  take  years  to  become  a  man. 

She  stood  up.     "You  must  go  now." 

How  sweet  and  slight  she  looked,  like  a  tall  white  flower 
swaying  in  the  shadows.  He  had  read  in  books  of  spirit- 
women  who,  in  the  bygone  days  of  romance,  had  lifted  up 
their  faces  from  amid  the  bracken  to  lure  knights  aside 
from  their  quest ;  and  the  knights,  having  once  kissed  them, 
had  lost  them  and  hungered  for  their  lips  forever.  He 
wanted  to  speak — wanted  to  say  something  true,  wanted  to 
tell  her  of  this  dynamic  change  that  she  had  worked  for 
him.  All  that  he  could  say  was,  "Cherry" ;  and  then,  "But 
how  shall  I  find  you?" 

"Find  me !"  she  laughed,  tiptoeing  on  her  bare  feet  with 
her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head.  "Oh,  you'll  find  me," 
she  nodded. 

"But  promise." 

She  half-closed  her  eyes,  as  though  tired  by  his  urgency. 
Then  she  threw  her  hands  to  her  side.  "I  like  you,  Peter. 
I  promise." 

Picking  up  her  shoes  and  stockings  she  pushed  back  the 
bushes.  "You're  not  to  follow." 

He  listened.  Was  she  standing  there,  hidden  by  the 
screen  of  leaves?  He  had  not  heard  the  rustle  of  her  go 
ing.  Suddenly  the  branches  were  thrust  back,  and  again  he 
saw  her.  Her  eyes  were  alight  with  merriment  and  her 


PETER    FINDS    A    FAIRY  257 

mouth  was  puckered.    "Oh,  little  Peter,  if  you'd  only  been 

older " 

Like  a  secret  door  in  a  green  wall  closing,  the  branches 
swished  back.  The  wood  muttered  to  itself  as  she  went 
from  him,  and  then  fell  so  silent  that  it  seemed  to  stand 
with  its  finger  pressed  against  its  mouth. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
WAKING  UP 

THE  world  is  a  mirror  into  which  we  gaze  and  see  the 
reflection  of  ourselves.  So  far  to  Peter  it  had  been  a  fore 
ground  of  small  boys  and  their  sisters,  with  a  background 
of  occasional  adult  relatives.  But  now,  like  a  fledgling 
which  has  grown  to  strength  lying  snugly  in  its  nest,  he 
had  looked  out  and  seen  the  leafy  distance  below  him.  His 
curiosity  was  roused ;  the  commonplace  was  a  wonderland. 
What  went  on  down  there?  Where  did  the  parent  birds 
go,  and  how  did  they  find  their  way  back?  What  was  the 
meaning  of  this  sun-and-shadow  landscape  that  people 
called  "living"  ?  Because  he  was  young,  when  he  looked 
out  of  the  nest,  the  distance  below  him  seemed  full  of 
youngness.  All  that  had  happened  up  to  now,  the  collapse 
of  Aunt  Jehane's  fortunes,  the  imprisonment  of  Uncle 
Waffles,  his  father's  problems  and  the  marriage  of  Grace 
to  her  policeman,  were  mere  stories  which  he  had  heard 
reported.  There  was  a  battle  called  life,  going  on  some 
where,  in  which  he  had  never  participated.  He  was  tired 
of  being  told  about  it.  He  wanted  to  feel  the  rush  of  wind 
under  his  outspread  wings ;  this  afternoon,  in  a  gust  of 
vivid  and  personal  experience,  he  thought  he  had  felt  it. 
What  was  it?  By  what  name  should  he  call  it?  Because 
he  was  only  fifteen,  love  sounded  too  large  a  word.  And 
yet If  it  wasn't  love,  what  was  it? 

All  along  the  dusty  summer  road,  through  the  golden 
evening,  as  he  tricycled  back  to  London,  he  argued  with 
himself.  Kay  interrupted  occasionally  and  he  answered, 
but  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere.  They  had  discovered  the 
gray-built  city  of  Reality,  and  went  from  door  to  door  tap- 

258 


WAKING   UP  259 

ping,  demanding-  entrance.  Ignorance  had  kept  him  unad- 
venturons  and  contented ;  his  contentedness  was  breaking 
do\Yn — he  was  glad  of  it.  The  urgent  need  was  on  him  to 
explain  creation  and  his  presence  in  the  world.  How  were 
people  born?  Why  did  they  marry?  How  did  they  get 
money?  The  child's  mind,  like  the  philosopher's,  goes  back 
to  fundamentals.  All  this  outward  pageant  which  had 
passed  before  his  eyes  for  fifteeen  years  as  a  sight  to  be 
expected,  had  suddenly  become  packed  with  hidden  signifi 
cance.  What  was  the  meaning  of  this  being  born,  this 
getting  and  spending,  this  disastrous  and  glorious  loving, 
struggling  and  being  buried  ?  There  was  no  one  to  whom 
he  dared  go  for  an  answer;  he  must  find  the  explanation 
within  himself.  In  the  isolation  of  that  thought  he  felt  a 
great  gulf  opening  between  himself  and  his  little  sister, 
between  himself  and  everyone  he  loved.  Whether  he  liked 
it  or  not,  one  day  he  must  grow  into  a  man ;  he  was  elated 
and  terrified  by  the  certainty.  And  all  the  while,  set  to 
the  creaking  music  of  the  lumbering  tricycle,  one  word 
sung  itself  over  and  over,  "Cherry,  Cherry,  Cherry." 

No  one,  looking  at  his  childish  face,  would  have  guessed 
the  grave  suspicions  and  wild  hazards  that  walked  in  the 
desperate  loneliness  of  his  imagination.  It  was  the  key  to 
existence  that  he  sought.  He  had  arrived  at  that  crisis  of 
soul  and  body,  when  every  child  is  driven  out,  a  John  the 
Baptist,  into  the  wilderness  of  conjecture,  there  to  live  on 
the  locusts  and  wild  honey  of  hearsay,  till  he  finds  the  fruit 
of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge. 

As  they  neared  the  suburbs,  a  stream  of  bicyclists — city 
clerks  riding  out  with  their  sweethearts — met,  engulfed  and 
gave  them  passage.  After  all,  it  was  a  merry,  laughing 
world !  Above  the  tinkling  of  bells,  evening  birds  were 
calling.  All  these  people,  how  did  they  live?  Where  did 
they  come  from?  Had  they,  too,  slept  and  been  awakened 
questioning,  because  a  girl  had  touched  them? 

Down  the  road  he  saw  his  aunt's  cottage.  Riska  would 
be  there  by  the  gate,  sitting  behind  her  table  spread  with 
cakes,  mineral-waters  and  glasses.  He  recalled  all  the 


26o  THE   RAFT 

things  he  had  heard  said  of  her,  things  to  which  he  had  paid 
no  attention — that  she  was  a  born  flirt  and  that  her  mother 
was  teaching  her  to  catch  men.  As  they  came  up,  she 
lifted  her  soft  eyes  and  let  them  rest  on  him  with  con 
temptuous  affection.  Why  did  she  do  that?  Why  did  she 
always  seem  to  despise  and  tolerate  men  and  boys?  A 
bicyclist,  who  had  ridden  past,  turned  his  head,  caught 
sight  of  her  and  came  back  slowly.  Peter  felt  that  it  was 
not  thirst,  but  Riska's  prettiness  that  had  recalled  him.  He 
felt  angry  with  Riska — unreasonably  angry,  for  she  had 
said  and  done  nothing. 

"We're  late,"  he  told  her ;  "we  can't  stop." 

She  nodded.  She  didn't  care.  Her  whole  attitude 
seemed  to  tell  Peter  that  he  wasn't  worth  wasting  time  on. 
Just  as  the  pedals  had  begun  to  turn,  Glory  came  out  and 
stood  in  the  porch.  She  waved  to  him  and  shouted  some 
thing.  He  called  to  her  that  they  were  in  a  hurry.  Further 
down  the  road,  he  turned  his  head ;  her  eyes  followed  him. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  they  reached  Topbury.  Lamps 
stood  like  marigold  splashes  on  the  dusk  in  a  quivering  line 
along  the  Terrace.  In  the  garden  he  found  his  parents, 
sitting  close  together  beneath  the  mulberry-tree  like  lovers. 
They  drew  apart  as  Kay  ran  up  to  them. 

"You're  late,  children."  It  was  his  mother  talking. 
"We  were  getting  nervous." 

He  kissed  her;  for  a  moment,  the  old  sense  of  security 
returned. 

"It's  time  K?.v  was  in  bed." 

She  crossed  the  gravel  path  with  her  arm  about  the  little 
girl,  and  disappeared  up  the  white  stone  steps  to  the 
house. 

Far  away,  as  of  old,  like  waves  about  the  foot  of  a 
cliff,  the  roar  of  London  threatened.  It  seemed  to  be  tell 
ing  him  that  he  would  not  be  always  sheltered — that  one 
day  he  would  have  to  launch  out,  steering  in  search  of  the 
unknown  future  by  himself.  It  was  not  the  boldness,  but 
the  loneliness  of  the  adventure  that  now  impressed  him. 

"Father." 


Whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  he  must  grow  up. 


WAKING   UP  261 

"Yes."    The  voice  came  to  him  out  of  the  darkness. 

"What  does  it  feel  like  to  become  a  man?" 

"Feel  like,  Peter!     I  don't  understand." 

"To  have  to — to  have  to  fight  for  oneself?" 

His  father  leant  out  and  touched  him.  "Have  you  be 
gun  to  think  of  that  already?  Fight  for  yourself!  You 
won't  have  to  do  that  for  a  long  while  yet." 

"But ."  Peter  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into  the 

arms  of  the  man  who  had  always  stood  between  him  and 
the  world.  "But  when  the  time  comes,  I  don't  want  to 
fail  like ,"  he  was  going  to  have  said  like  Uncle  Waf 
fles,  but  he  said  instead,  "like  some  people."  And  then, 
after  a  pause,  "I  feel  so  unprepared." 

"We've  all  felt  that  way,  sonny.  Somehow  we  get 
the  strength.  You'll  get  it." 

Peter  sighed  contentedly.  He  was  again  in  the  nest  with 
the  creeper-covered  walls  about  him.  The  strained  note 
had  gone  out  of  his  voice  when  he  spoke  now.  "There's 
so  much  to  learn.  It  seems  so  strange  to  think  that  one 
day  I'll  have  to  grow  up,  like  you,  and  marry,  and  earn 
money,  and  have  little  boys  and  girls." 

His  father  laughed  huskily.  "Very  strange!  Strange 
even  to  me,  Peter — and  I've  done  it.  And,  d'you  know, 
there  are  times  when  even  a  man  looks  back  and  is  sur 
prised  that  he's  grown  up.  He  feels  just  what  you're  feel 
ing — the  wonder  of  it.  It  seems  only  the  other  day  that 
I  was  as  small  as  you  are ;  and  only  the  other  day  that  I 
was  frightened  of  life  and  what  it  meant.  Are  you 
frightened  ?" 

For  answer  Peter  stood  up.  "Not  so  much  frightened  as 
puzzled." 

His  father  rose  and  led  him  out  from  beneath  the 
leaves,  which  crowded  above  their  heads.  He  pointed  up 
past  the  roofs  of  houses.  "We  couldn't  see  them  under 
there,"  he  said.  "Every  night  they  come  to  their  places 
and  stand,  shining.  Some  one  sends  them.  Some  one  sent 
you  and  me,  Peter.  We  don't  know  why.  There  are  people 
who  sit  always  under  trees  and  never  look  up.  They'll  tell 


262  THE    RAFT 

you  that  there  aren't  any  stars  overhead.  We're  not  like 
that.  We  know  that  whoever  is  careful  enough  to  hang 
lamps  on  the  clouds,  is  careful  enough  to  watch  over  us. 
So  we  needn't  be  afraid  of  living,  need  we,  old  chap?" 
Peter  pressed  his  father's  hand.  "I'll  try  to  remember." 
That  night,  when  the  house  was  all  silent,  he  crept  out 
of  bed.  Leaning  from  the  open  window,  he  looked  down 
on  London,  stretching  for  miles  and  miles,  with  its  huddled 
roofs  spread  over  its  huddled  personalities.  Why  were 
things  as  they  were?  If  some  one  lit  lamps  in  the  heavens 
and  followed  each  life  with  care,  why  did  four  women,  who 
loved  children,  sit  forever  with  their  arms  empty,  while 
one  sang  of  the  sweet  fields  of  Eden;  and  why  did  Uncle 
Waffles ?  The  questions  were  unanswerable  and  end 
less.  And  then,  in  defiant  contrast,  there  came  bounding 
into  his  memory  the  courageous  figure  of  the  Faun  Man, 
with  his  cavalier  attitudes  and  strong  determination  to  make 
of  life  a  laughing  affair.  The  night  quickened ;  the  ghostly 
feet  of  a  little  breeze  tiptoed  across  the  tree-tops,  causing 
their  leaves  to  rustle.  From  the  far  distance,  the  throb  of 
belated  traffic  reached  him  like  the  beat  of  a  muffled  drum. 
He  heard  London  marching  to  the  martial  music  of  strug 
gle  ;  his  heart  was  stirred.  Life  was  a  fight — well,  what  of 
it?  When  his  time  came,  he  must  be  ready.  He  looked 
again  at  the  stars,  remembering  what  his  father  had  said. 
One  need  not  be  frightened.  And  then  he  looked  away  into 
the  blackness ;  somewhere  over  there  the  houses  ended  and 
the  wide  peace  of  the  country  commenced.  Somewhere 
over  there  was  Cherry. 

He  waited  impatiently  for  his  next  half -holiday,  when 
he  would  be  free  to  tricycle  out.  When  he  went,  she  was 
not  in  the  Haunted  Wood ;  nor  the  next  time,  nor  the  next. 
He  wanted  to  ask  the  Faun  Man,  but  postponed  through 
shyness ;  he  was  afraid  his  secret  would  be  guessed.  He 
was  always  hoping  and  hoping  that  he  would  find  her  be 
hind  the  green  wall  of  leaves,  where  the  little  river  ran. 
One  afternoon,  when  tea  was  ended  and  Kay  and  Harry 


WAKING    UP  263 

had  gone  out,  he  asked,  "Does  the  girl  who  broke  your  pic 
tures  never  come  here  now?" 

The  Faun  Man  looked  up  sharply  and  stared,  trying  to 
guess  behind  the  question. 

"I  wasn't  very  decent  to  you  that  day,  was  I?  And  I 
was  beastly  to  her." 

"I  think  she  was  sorry,"  said  Peter  softly.  "I  wish 
you'd  let  her .  Does  she  never  come  here  now?" 

The  Faun  Man  leant  forward  across  the  table,  with  his 
face  between  his  long  brown  hands.  "Did  you  like  her, 
Peter?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  much?" 

Peter  lowered  his  eyes.     "Very  much." 

When  he  dared  to  glance  up,  he  found  that  the  Faun 
Man  wasn't  laughing.  He  reached  out  his  hand  to  Peter. 
"You're  young,"  he  said.  "Fifteen,  isn't  it?  Well,  she's 
a  year  older.  It's  dangerous  to  like  a  girl  very  much — 
especially  a  little  wild  thing  like  Cherry.  I'm  a  man  and 
I  know,  because  I,  too,  like  some  one  very  much;  and  it 
doesn't  always  make  me  happy.  You'll  like  heaps  of  girls, 
Peter,  before  you  find  the  right  one."  He  felt  that  Peter's 
hand  had  grown  smaller  in  his  own  and  was  withdrawing. 
"You  think  it  isn't  true?"  he  questioned.  "You  think  it 
wasn't  kind  of  me  to  say  that?  And  you  want  to  see  her?" 

Peter  gazed  out  of  the  cottage  window  to  where  sunlight 
fell  aslant  the  Haunted  Wood.  Why  should  he  want  to  see 
her  more  than  anyone  in  the  world  ?  But  he  did.  And  he 
knew  that  because  he  was  so  young,  most  people  would 
consider  his  desire  absurd.  But  the  Faun  Man,  who  found 
so  much  to  laugh  at,  was  regarding  him  seriously.  "And 
you  want  to  see  her?" 

Peter  whispered,  "Yes." 

The  Faun  Man's  eyes  filmed  over  in  that  curious  way 
they  had.  He  said :  "I  want  you  to  trust  me.  There  are 
reasons  why  you  can't  see  her.  I've  sent  her  away  be 
cause  I  think  that  it's  best.  I  can't  tell  you  why  or  where 
I've  sent  her;  or  what  right  I  have  to  send  her.  But  I 


264  THE    RAFT 

want  you  to  know  that  I  don't  smile  at  you  for  liking  her. 
It  doesn't  matter  how  old  or  young  we  are;  when  love 
comes,  it  always  hurts.  And  it  seems  just  as  serious 
whether  it  comes  late  or  early.  But  some  day  I'll  let  you 
see  her.  To  you  at  fifteen,  some  day  seems  very  far  from 
now.  But  if  you  wait,  and  still  think  you  care  for  her,  I'll 
let  you  see  her  when  the  time  comes.  I  don't  think  we 
ought  to  speak  of  this  again  till  then.  We'll  keep  it  a  secret 
which  we  never  discuss;  but  we'll  each  remember.  Is 
that  a  bargain?" 

Peter  had  no  other  choice  than  to  accept.  They  shook 
hands. 

Shortly  after  this  Kay  and  Peter  went  away  to  a  farm 
in  North  Wales  for  their  summer  holidays.  Their  first 
intention  on  their  return  was  to  visit  the  Faun  Man  and 
Harry.  On  going  to  the  stable,  they  found  that  the  tri 
cycle  was  no  longer  there.  Their  father  was  very  mys 
terious  and  unconcerned  when  they  told  him;  evidently  he 
knew  what  had  happened.  "All  right,"  he  said,  "just  wait  a 
day  or  two.  You'll  see — it'll  come  back." 

And  one  morning  it  did  come  back,  ridden  by  a  man 
with  a  face  all  smudges,  who  presented  a  bill  for  payment. 
It  had  entirely  transformed  itself,  like  a  widow-lady  who 
had  been  brisked  up  by  an  unexpected  offer  of  marriage. 
From  a  sober,  old-fasioned  tricycle  it  had  taken  on  an 
appearance  almost  modern  and  festive.  Its  handle-bars  had 
been  replated  ;  its  framework  re-enameled ;  its  tall  wheels  cut 
down ;  its  solid  tires  removed  and  replaced  by  pneumatics. 
It  sparkled  in  the  sun,  as  though  defying  butcher-boys  to 
jeer  at  it.  The  man,  with  the  face  all  smudges,  wheeled  it 
through  the  stable  into  the  garden;  he  left  it  beneath  the 
mulberry-tree,  and  there  the  children,  on  arriving  home 
from  school,  found  it. 

"Why,  it's  a  new  tricycle !" 

Peter  looked  it  over,  "No,  it  isn't,  Kitten  Kay.  It's  the 
old  one  altered." 

Their  mother,  hearing  their  shouts,  came  out  into  the 
garden,  nearly  as  excited  herself.  They  had  visions  of  spin- 


WAKING   UP  265 

ning  out  to  the  Happy  Cottage  at  the  breakneck  speed  of 
eight  miles  an  hour.  While  they  clambered  on  to  it,  exam 
ined  it  and  spotted  new  improvements  in  the  way  of  a  lamp 
and  saddles,  she  explained  to  them  how  it  had  happened. 
"It's  your  father's  doing.  He  meant  it  as  a  surprise.  He 
thought  the  old  tires  made  it  too  heavy,  so ." 

Kay  interrupted.  "Oh,  Peter,  do  let's  take  it  out  on  to 
the  Terrace  and  try  it." 

As  they  wheeled  it  down  the  gravel  path  between  the 
geranium  beds,  they  chattered  of  how  they  would  surprise 
Harry.  But  Harry  was  fated  never  to  see  it.  On  the  Ter 
race,  when  they  had  mounted,  while  their  mother  watched 
them  from  the  window,  they  found  that  everything  was  not 
well.  The  man  with  the  face  all  smudges  had  been  wise  in 
demanding  his  money  before  his  handiwork  was  tested.  He 
had  cut  the  wheels  so  low  that,  where  the  road  was  un 
even,  the  pedals  bumped  against  the  ground.  Life  had,  in 
deed,  become  serious  for  Peter;  through  his  father's  well- 
intentioned  kindness,  his  means  of  communication  between 
reality  and  fairyland  had  been  annihilated.  For  a  time  it 
looked  as  though  so  small  an  accident  as  the  indiscreet  re 
modeling  of  a  tricycle  had  lost  for  him  forever  the  new 
friendships  formed  at  the  Happy  Cottage. 

But  one  evening  a  dinner  was  given  by  Mr.  Barrington 
to  a  famous  man  whose  work  he  was  anxious  to  publish. 
Kay  and  Peter  were  allowed  to  see  him  after  dessert. 

The  moment  Peter's  head  appeared  round  the  door  the 
famous  man  rose  up  and  shouted,  "Hulloa,  young  'un,  so  at 
last  I've  found  you !  Where  the  dickens  have  you  been 
hiding?" 

Mr.  Barrington  lay  back  in  his  chair,  his  arms  hanging 
limp  on  either  side,  the  image  of  amazement.  He  heard  his 
son  explaining :  "It  was  the  tandem  trike.  Father  wanted  to 

be  kind  to  us  and .     Well,  after  he'd  had  it  improved, 

it  wouldn't  work.     And  so,  you  see,  there  was  no  way  of 
getting  to  you." 

The  Faun  Man  spread  out  his  long  legs,  laughing  up 
roariously;  until  the  appearance  of  the  children,  he'd  been 


266  THE    RAFT 

most  scrupulously  conventional  and  polite.  "But,  Peter,  an 
immortal  friendship  like  ours  cut  short  by  a  tandem  trike ! 
You  little  donkey,  why  didn't  you  write?" 

Kay  rose  up  in  her  brother's  defence.  "He  isn't  a  little 
donkey.  We  were  all  to  be  pretence  people,  don't  you  re 
member?  We  didn't  know  your  address." 

The  Faun  Man  stroked  his  chin  and  lengthened  his  face. 
"If  you'd  left  me  alone  much  longer,"  he  said,  "you 
wouldn't  have  found  me ;  I'm  moving  into  London." 

Then  their  parents  began  to  ask  questions;  the  story  of 
Friday  Lane  and  the  mouth-organ  boy  came  out. 

That  evening,  after  Lorenzo  Arran  had  said  good-by,  he 
turned  back  to  his  host,  just  as  the  door  was  closing. 

"Oh,  I  say!  One  minute,  Harrington.  That  matter  we 
were  discussing  yesterday — let's  consider  it  settled." 

Barrington  watched  the  tall,  lean  figure  go  striding  down 
the  Terrace.  He  was  so  taken  up  with  watching,  that  he 
didn't  know  that  Nan  had  stolen  up  behind  him  until  she 
touched  his  hand.  He  turned ;  his  mouth  was  crooked  with 
amusement.  "Did  you  hear  that?  He  agrees — I'm  to 
publish  for  him.  And  it's  Peter's  doing.  One  never  knows 
where  that  boy  won't  turn  up." 

And  Peter,  snuggled  cosily  in  bed,  was  wondering 
whether,  now  that  he'd  found  the  Faun  Man,  he'd  refind 
Cherry.  He  reflected  that  when  life  could  play  such  tricks 
on  you,  a  lifetime  of  it  wouldn't  be  half  bad.  He  was  no 
longer  frightened  to  remember  that,  whether  he  liked  it  or 
not,  he  must  grow  up. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 
A   GOLDEN   WORLD 

AND  he  refound  her,  when  he  had  almost  forgotten  her. 
In  those  four  long  years,  which  stretch  like  a  magic  ocean 
between  the  island  of  boyhood  and  the  misty  coasts  of 
early  manhood,  it  is  so  easy  to  forget.  Those  years,  be 
tween  fifteen  and  nineteen,  are  the  longest  in  life,  per 
haps. 

They  had  been  spent  by  Peter  among  books,  watching, 
as  in  a  wizard's  crystal,  the  dead  world-builders  at  work; 
they  had  risen  from  their  graves  in  the  dusk  of  his  imagi 
nation,  stretched  themselves,  gathered  strength  and 
marched  anew  to  the  downfall  of  Troy  and  the  conquest 
of  befabled  empires.  How  real  those  poignant  religions 
were,  telling  of  the  loves  of  ruffianly  gods  for  perishable 
earth-maidens — so  real  to  him  that  he  had  paid  little  heed 
to  the  present. 

In  his  outward  life  nothing  had  much  altered ;  things 
were  called  by  different  names.  They  spoke  of  him  as 
nearly  a  man  now — servants  addressed  him  as  "sir";  they 
had  never  doubted  that  he  was  a  boy  once.  Kay  stood  a 
few  inches  higher  on  her  legs.  Romance  had  retired  from 
active  business,  leaving  to  her  children  the  unthankful 
task  of  having  kittens. 

Just  as  Peter  was  said  to  be  nearly  a  man  and  hadn't 
changed,  so  the  nursery  was  said  to  be  his  study,  though 
it  was  almost  the  same  in  appearance.  A  student's  lamp 
had  replaced  the  old  gas-jet.  Shelves,  which  had  held 
fairy-tale  volumes  in  which  truth  was  depicted  with  a 
laughing  countenance,  now  supported  serious  lexicons  from 
which  truth  stared  out  with  austerity.  But  his  study  re- 

267 


268  THE    RAFT 

tained  reminders  of  those  tremulous  days  when  it  was  still 
a  nursery,  and  hadn't  grown  up — when  it  was  the  dreaming 
place  of  a  girl  whose  arms  were  empty,  in  whose  heart  had 
begun  to  echo  the  patter  of  tiny  footsteps.  The  tall  guard 
stood  before  the  fireplace,  as  though  it  feared  that  the 
long  youth,  who  sat  continually  poring  over  a  book  with 
his  eyes  shaded  by  his  hand,  might  shrink  into  the  curly- 
headed  urchin  who  hadn't  known  that  live  coals  burned. 
The  laburnum  still  leant  her  arms  upon  the  window-sill 
and  tap-tap-tapped,  shedding  her  golden  tassels ;  she 
gazed  in  upon  him  with  the  same  indiscretion  as  when 
he  was  a  newcomer,  with  ungovernable  arms  and  legs,  who 
had  to  be  tubbed  night  and  morning.  And  she  saw  the 
same  mother,  who  had  sung  him  to  sleep,  peer  in  at  the 
door  on  her  way  to  bed,  tiptoe  across  the  threshold,  ruffle 
his  hair  and  whisper,  "Peter,  darling,  you  can't  learn  every 
thing  between  now  and  morning.  Won't  you  get  some 
rest?" 

He  had  exchanged  tandem  tricycles  for  lexicons  as  a 
means  of  locomotion  to  the  land  of  adventure.  His  little 
sister  could  no  longer  accompany  him;  but  the  desire  for 
wisdom  had  left  room  for  the  heart  of  tenderness.  When 
his  lamp  shone  solitary  in  the  darkened  house,  he  would 
straighten  his  shoulders  and  listen,  fancying  he  heard  the 
angel's  whistle. 

In  four  months  he  was  going  up  to  Oxford,  to  live  in  gray 
cloisters  where  boys  at  once  become  men.  His  father 
shared  his  anticipation  generously.  "You're  going  to  re 
cover  my  lost  chances.  Lucky  chap!" 

It  was  summer.  He  had  risen  early  and  sat  by  his 
study  window  reading  the  Iliad.  The  house  was  full  of  lazy 
morning  sounds — bath-water  running,  breakfast  being  pre 
pared,  doors  opening  and  shutting,  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 
Outside  in  the  garden  the  sun  dropped  golden  balls,  which 
tumbled  through  the  trees  and  rolled  across  the  turf.  Birds, 
hopping  in  and  out  the  rose-bushes,  were  industriously 
foraging.  Tripping  up  the  gravel-path,  with  fresh-plucked 
flowers  in  her  hands,  he  could  see  his  little  sister,  her  gold 


A   GOLDEN   WORLD  269 

hair  blowing.  A  tap  fell  upon  his  door.  A  maid,  rustling 
in  a  starched  dress,  entered.  "It's  just  come,  Master 
Peter." 

"For  me  ?    A  telegram !" 

He  slit  it  open  and  read:  "At  Henley  with  'The  Sky 
lark.'  Can't  you  come  for  Regatta?  Cherry  with  me." 

Cherry  with  him !  It  was  signed  Lorenzo  Arran.  So  he 
was  keeping  his  promise !  But  why  should  Cherry  be  with 
him?  And  where  had  she  been  hiding  all  those  long  four 
years  ?  So  the  Faun  Man  had  taken  his  houseboat  to  Hen 
ley!  It  would  be  rather  jolly  to  join  him;  but,  after  all,  he 
ought  to  stick  to  his  work.  And  this  girl — did  he  want  to 
see  her? 

The  maid  was  waiting.  A  telegram  at  Topbury  was  a 
rarity  in  these  days.  It  cost  sixpence  at  the  cheapest; 
therefore  its  use  was  restricted  to  the  announcement  of  the 
extremes  of  joy  and  sorrow — births,  deaths  and  financial 
losses.  She  showed  relief  when  he  looked  up  cheerily  and 
said,  "Tell  the  boy  no  answer." 

When  she  had  gone  he  stood  up,  walked  about  the  room 
excitedly  and  halted  by  the  window.  He  wouldn't  go,  of 
course ;  it  would  run  his  father  into  expense.  Then,  again 
he  read  the  words,  "Cherry  with  me."  It  would  be  amusing 
to  see  her.  He  began  to  wonder — did  she  know  that  the 

Faun  Man  had  sent  for  him?  If  she  did ?  His 

thoughts  flew  back  across  the  years :  he  was  in  the  Haunted 
Wood.  The  little  river  was  singing,  "Turn  back,  turn  back, 
turn  back."  He  refused  to  turn  back,  and  followed ;  sud 
denly,  across  the  scrub-oak,  he  found  himself  gazing  into 
the  gray  eyes  of  a  girl.  It  was  the  grayness  of  her  eyes  and 
the  whiteness  of  her  feet  that  he  remembered. 

He  leant  over  the  table  and  closed  the  book  with  its 
unreal  love-legends  of  gods  and  goddesses.  "By  Jove,  but 
I'd  like  to  go,"  he  said  aloud. 

The  maid  had  spread  the  news  of  the  unusual  happen 
ing.  As  he  entered  the  breakfast-room  all  eyes  examined 
him.  They  waited  for  him  to  be  communicative.  At  last 
his  father  said,  "Had  a  telegram?" 


270  THE    RAFT 

Peter  drew  it  from  his  pocket  and  passed  it. 

His  father  looked  up.  "  'Cherry  with  me.'  What  does 
he  mean  by  that?" 

Peter  raised  his  eyebrows,  as  much  as  to  say  "How  can 
I  tell?" 

His  father  handed  it  back.     "Are  you  going?" 

"Costs  money,  and  I've  too  much  work." 

It  was  the  mention  of  work  that  roused  his  mother.  She 
smiled  gently,  and  glanced  down  the  table  at  her  husband. 
"It  would  do  him  good,  Billy." 

"Yes,  it  would  do  you  good,"  his  father  said.  "Why 
don't  you  go,  old  chap?" 

"Yes,  why  don't  you  go  ?"  Kay  echoed. 

His  things  were  quickly  packed.  In  a  flannel  suit,  with 
his  straw  hat  in  his  hand,  he  was  saying  good-by  on  the 
doorstep.  His  father  bethought  him.  "Here,  wait  a  sec 
ond.  Peter;  I'll  walk  with  you  to  the  end  of  the  Terrace." 
While  walking  he  delivered  his  warning,  "This  man  Arran 
— personally  I  like  him  and  I  know  he's  your  friend, 

but .    I've  nothing  against  him,  but  he's  a  queer  fellow 

— clever  as  the  dickens  and  all  that.  The  fact  is,  curious 
tales  are  told  about  him — all  of  them  too  far-fetched  to  be 
true.  You  know  the  saying  about  no  smoke  without  fire, 

well .    It  may  be  that  he's  only  different ;  but  he  strikes 

people  as  being  fast  and  dangerous.  Be  careful ;  I'd  trust 
you  anywhere.  Have  a  good  time.  I've  got  it  off  my  chest 
— my  sermon's  ended." 

At  the  bottom  of  the  Crescent,  to  his  great  relief,  Peter 
found  that  Cat's  Meat's  master  was  not  on  the  stand.  He 
wouldn't  have  hurt  Mr.  Grace's  feelings  for  the  world.  He 
was  free  to  jump  into  a  spanking  hansom.  Cat's  Meat  may 
have  seen  him ;  but  Cat's  Meat  couldn't  tell.  Surely,  at  his 
age,  he  must  have  been  glad  to  escape  the  long  crawl  to 
Paddington.  The  younger  horse  in  the  hansom  stepped 
out  gaily,  making  his  hoofs  ring  smartly  against  the  cobble 
stones.  "Cherry,  Cherry,  Cherry,"  they  seemed  to  be  say 
ing.  Taking  short-cuts  by  side-roads,  now  following  gleam 
ing  tram-lines,  now  dashing  through  mean  streets,  past 


A   GOLDEN    WORLD  271 

public  houses  in  plenty,  they  sped  till  they  struck  Padding- 
ton  and  drew  up  in  the  glass-roofed  station.  And  then 
the  drifting  motion  of  the  train  and  the  unbelievable  green 
ness  of  the  country — the  glimpses  of  silver  water,  quiet 
meadows  and  cottages  in  which  people  were  born  and  died, 
and  never  traveled !  And  the  holiday  crowds  on  the  plat 
forms  !  The  girls  in  summer  dresses — the  superb  clean 
ness  and  coolness  of  them,  and  the  happiness !  It  was  ex 
citing.  The  wheels  beneath  his  carriage  drummed  out  one 
word,  "Cherry,  Cherry,  Cherry."  He  didn't  know  even 
yet  whether  he  wanted  to  see  her. 

The  train  achieved  the  surprise  of  the  century — it  arrived 
early.  He  examined  the  expectant  faces  of  the  people; 
neither  Harry  nor  the  Faun  Man  was  there.  He  refused 
to  hang  about;  his  legs  ached  to  be  moving.  Picking  up 
his  bag,  he  set  out  to  walk,  hoping  he  would  meet  them. 

Streets  were  garish — flowers  in  gardens,  foamy  toilets 
of  women,  college  blazers  and  rowing  colors,  and,  over  all, 
swift  white  clouds  and  the  fiercely  gleaming  sun.  From 
under  wide  river-hats  girls  laughed  up  into  men's  tanned 
faces-.  Everyone  was  young  or,  because  the  world  was 
golden,  seemed  to  be  young.  Peter  wanted  some  one  to 
laugh  with.  Walking  down  the  middle  of  the  street,  the 
crowd  moved  in  pairs,  a  man  and  a  woman  together,  al 
most  invariably.  The  old  gray  town,  like  Peter,  looked 
lonely  in  this  hubbub  of  jostling  love  and  merriment. 

As  he  came  in  sight  of  the  Catherine  Wheel,  a  distant 
cheering  commenced.  Feet  moved  faster.  Men  caught  at 
women's  arms,  and  women  caught  up  their  dresses ;  the 
army  of  pleasure-seekers  commenced  to  run.  Because 
Peter  was  by  himself  he  forged  ahead  and  found  a  place 
on  the  bridge  where  people  stood  yelling  and  jammed, 
shoulder  to  shoulder.  At  first  he  could  make  out  hardly 
anything,  because  of  the  sea  of  hats  and  backs  in  front  of 
him.  Then  the  crowd  swayed ;  he  took  advantage  of  it  and 
found  himself  leaning  over  the  crumbling  stone  balustrade, 
gazing  down  on  one  of  the  most  gallant  sights  in  England. 
Through  a  steep  bank  of  posies,  made  up  of  river  gardens, 


272  THE    RAFT 

house-boats  and  human  faces,  ran  a  silver  thread.  Ap 
proaching,  with  what  seemed  incredible  slowness,  were  two 
specks  about  the  size  of  matches.  As  the  sun  caught  them, 
one  saw  the  flash  of  blades,  whipping  the  water  with  the 
regularity  of  clockwork.  Stealthily,  with  infinite  labor, 
one  stole  ahead.  The  garden  of  faces  on  either  side  of  the 
silver  thread  trembled ;  a  roar  went  up  which  gathered 
volume  as  it  drew  from  out  the  distance.  Peter  pressed  his 
lips  against  a  man's  ear — a  complete  stranger — and  shouted, 
"What  is  it?" 

The  man  stared  at  him  despisingly,  "The  Diamond  Sculls. 
Roy  Hardcastle  again  the  Australian."  He  turned  away 
and  paid  Peter  no  more  attention. 

Peter,  though  not  much  wiser,  at  once  became  a  partisan 
and  screamed  the  one  name  he  knew,  "Hardcastle !  Hard- 
castle  !  Hardcastle !"  till  his  throat  felt  as  if  it  had  burst. 

And  now  they  were  well  in  sight — two  men  with  bent 
backs  and  arms  that  worked  like  levers,  each  seated  in  a 
machine  as  narrow  as  a  needle,  with  long  wooden  legs 
which  stuck  out  on  either  side,  striding  the  water  and  keep 
ing  the  balance.  They  looked  like  human  egg-beaters  gone 
mad.  The  river  rose  to  its  feet ;  the  winning-post  was  near- 
ing.  The  channel  of  free  water  seemed  to  narrow  as  skiffs, 
gigs,  punts,  dingeys  and  every  kind  of  craft  pressed  closer 
to  the  booms  which  marked  the  course. 

Something  happened.  Both  men  drooped  inertly  for 
ward  over  trailing  sculls.  It  was  dramatic,  this  immediate 
transition  from  frantic  energy  to  listless  collapse.  Hats 
were  tossed  up.  Launches  shrieked  and  whistled.  Every 
one  tried  to  make  more  noise  than  his  neighbor,  Peter  with 
the  rest.  "Well  rowed.  Well  rowed,  sir.  Well  rowed." 

When  the  clamor  had  died  down  he  turned  to  where  the 
man  had  been  standing.  "Who  won?"  And  then,  "Oh,  I 
beg  your  pardon." 

He  was  gazing  into  the  amused  face  of  a  girl  with  gray 
eyes  and  brown-black  .hair,  that  swept  like  a  cloud  across  a 
clear  white  forehead. 


A   GOLDEN    WORLD  273 

"Who  won !  Roy  Hardcastle,  of  course.  England's  not 
beaten  yet." 

He  wasn't  thinking  of  England's  honor ;  the  race — it  had 
never  happened.  He  was  looking  at  her  mouth.  They  called 
her  Cherry,  because  her  lips  were  red. 

She  was  going  from  him.  How  straight  she  was!  How 
slender !  Like  a  slim  spring  flower — a  narcissus,  perhaps. 
He  went  after  her  and  raised  his  hat.  "Forgive  me  for 
speaking  to  you.  Just  a  minute  before  a  man  was  standing 
there,  and " 

'That's  all  right,"  she  said;  "I  understand." 

Again  she  was  on  the  point  of  leaving.  He  had  to  make 
certain.  "Since  I've  been  so  rude  already,  would  you  mind 
if  I  asked  you  one  more  question?" 

She  looked  him  over  casually  and  seemed  more  satisfied 
that  she  was  willing  to  admit  to  anyone  but  herself.  "Not 
at  all." 

He  straightened  his  necktie  nervously.  "Then,  can  you 
tell  me  where  I'll  find  The  Skylark ?  It's  a  house-boat  be 
longing  to  Lorenzo  Arran." 

She  laughed  softly  and  stood  with  her  eyes  cast  down, 
tapping  the  pavement  with  her  foot.  He  was  sure  now. 
She  looked  up.  "Where  have  I  seen  you?  Somehow 
you're  familiar.  It's  annoying;  you  knew  me  in  a  flash." 

"You're  Cherry?" 

"Only  to  a  few  of  my  dearest  friends." 

He  glanced  away  from  her.  "You  were  Cherry  to  me 
once  for  about  an  hour;  you've  been  Cherry  to  me  ever 
since  then." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  "And  yet  I  don't  know  you," 
she  said.  "You  must  be  the  friend  Mr.  Arran  was  expect 
ing  down  from  London." 

Peter  nodded. 

"He  and  Harry  went  to  meet  you.  You  must  have  missed 
each  other  at  the  station.  If  you  like,  I'll  show  you  the 
way  to  The  Skylark;  I'm  going  there.  They'll  be  wonder 
ing  whether  you've  come.  We'd  better  hurry." 

"Oh,  please  not  yet." 


274  THE    RAFT 

"But  why  not?"  she  asked,  puzzled. 

"Because  I'm — I  don't  know.  My  pride's  touched  that 
you  don't  know  me.  Would  you  think  it  awfully  cheeky  if 
I  were  to  ask  you  to  come  and  have  tea  with  me  first  ?" 

She  opened  her  parasol,  gaining  time  while  she  made  her 
mind  up;  and  then,  "I'm  game.  I  haven't  had  much  ad 
venture  lately.  I'm  just  out  of  a  convent  school  in  France." 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide.    "Ah,  so  that  was  it !" 

They  entered  the  Red  Lion  and  walked  through  into  the 
garden.  They  ordered  tea  at  a  small  table  from  which  they 
could  see  the  river. 

"Why  did  you  say  that?"  she  asked. 

"What  did  I  say?" 

"You  said,  'Ah,  so  that  was  it !'  You  opened  your  mouth 
so  wide  when  you  said  it  that  I  thought  you'd  gape  your 
head  off.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  in  America  we  had  a 
colored  cook  with  a  decapitating  smile — it  nearly  met  at 
the  back  of  her  neck.  Well,  your  'Ah'  was  a  decapitating 
'Ah.'  Now  tell  me?" 

"Because  I've  waited  four  years  to  find  out  where  you've 
been  hiding." 

"Four  years !"     She  tried  to  think  back. 

He  leant  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his  face  between  his 
hands.  "Seems  a  long  while,  doesn't  it?  In  four  years 
one  can  grow  up.  Last  time  we  were  together  you  made  me 
a  promise — you  said  we'd  meet  again  often  in  the  same 
place.  I  went  there  and  went  there — you  didn't  keep  your 
word." 

She  laughed.  "I  suppose  it's  a  trifle  too  late  to  say  I'm 
sorry.  I  don't  suppose  you  minded  much."  She  waited 
for  him  to  contradict  that ;  when  he  didn't  she  continued, 
"How  much  do  you  know  about  me?  For  instance,  what's 
my  real  name?" 

He  laughed  in  return.  "You've  got  me  there.  All  you 
told  me  was  that  people  called  you  Cherry,  because  your 
lips  were  red." 

She  sank  her  head  between  her  shoulders;  then  she 
looked  up  flushing  and  pursing  her  lips  together,  like  a 


A   GOLDEN   WORLD 


275 


child  who  wants  to  extract  a  favor  by  being  loved.  "Be  a 
sportsman.  You're  awfully  tantalizing.  Give  me  a  pointer 
that'll  help  me  to  guess.  You  know,  I  ought  to  know  who 
you  are;  it  isn't  good  form  for  a  girl  to  take  tea  with  a 
strange  young  man." 

"Well,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly,  "do  you  remember  a 
day  when  you  knocked  down  and  walked  over,  oh,  let's  say 
about  twenty  photographs  of  the  same  lady?" 

"Do  I  remember!"  She"  sniffed  a  little  scornfully. 
"  Tisn't  likely  I'd  forget ;  that  was  why  the  Faun  Man  sent 
me  to  a  convent." 

She  had  said  rather  more  than  she  intended.  She  was 
provoked  with  herself  and  with  Peter,  for  the  moment,  be 
cause  he  had  drawn  her  out.  She  twisted  round  on  her 
chair,  so  that  he  could  see  only  her  shoulders. 

Not  realizing  that  he  was  being  snubbed,  he  pushed  the 
subject  further,  "What  an  unfair  punishment !  That 
doesn't  sound  like  the  Faun  Man.  But,  perhaps,  you  liked 
it.  What  did  you  do  at  the  convent?" 

"Always  praying,"  she  answered,  with  her  shoulders  still 
toward  him.  "And,  look  here,  don't  you  say  that  the  Faun 
Man  was  unfair.  He  wasn't.  He  didn't  send  me  away 
only  for  breaking  his  pictures."  And  then,  inconsequently, 
"If  it  wasn't  too  childish  I'd  go  and  smash  them  all  afresh." 

Suddenly  she  swung  round,  "I  know  who  you  are.  Hur 
ray  !  You're  Peter.  You  see,  I  remember  the  name.  Shall 
I  give  myself  away  and  tell  you  why  I  remember?" 

"Do.    Do,"  he  urged. 

The  answer  came  promptly.  "Because  you  paid  me  com 
pliments.  You  thought  that  God  said  to  Himself  when  He 
made  me,  Til  make  the  most  beautiful  person  I've  ever 
made.' — Hulloa!  You  don't  like  that.  It  wasn't  quite 
what  you  expected.  What  did  you  expect?  Until  you  tell 
me  I  won't  speak  to  you." 

Compelled  by  her  silence,  he  confessed,  "I  did  hope  that 
you  might  have  remembered  me  for  something — something 
more  romantic.  You  see,  we  met  in  the  Haunted  Wood, 


276  THE   RAFT 

and  there  was  the  river,  and  you  were  going  to  drown 
yourself.  You'd  taken  off  your  shoes  and  stockings  as  a 
first  step,  which  was  very  economical  of  you.  And  I — I  saw 
your  feet,  and " 

She  waved  her  handkerchief  at  him,  her  eyes  a-sparkle. 
"I  know.  I  know.  Very  pretty  and  very  foolish !"  She 
rose.  "We  ought  to  be  going." 

Outside  the  Red  Lion,  she  turned  toward  the  river;  "I 
left  my  boat  at  one  of  the  landings." 

When  they  had  found  it  and  he  had  helped  her  in,  she 
said,  "You  can  row,  I  suppose?  All  right,  then,  I'll  steer; 
you  take  the  sculls." 

They  drifted  down  with  the  stream,  the  gray  bridge, 
spanning  the  river,  growing  more  distant  behind  them ;  the 
wooded  hills  swimming  up  on  every  side  to  form  a  green 
cup,  against  which  the  sky  stooped  its  lips.  They  floated  by 
lazy  craft,  in  which  women  lay  back  on  cushions  beneath 
sunshades  and  men  with  bare  arms  clasped  about  their 
knees  watched  them.  Snatches  of  laughter  reached  them, 
to  which  the  murmur  of  voices  droned  an  accompaniment. 
On  green  lawns,  beneath  dreaming  garden  trees,  little 
groups  of  brightly  attired  people  clustered.  From  house 
boats  along  the  river-bank  stole  music,  one  air  creeping  into 
another  as  they  passed,  fashioning  a  medley — coon  songs 
from  America,  Victorian  ballads  of  sentiment,  a  wild  scrap 
of  Dvorak  and  the  latest  impertinence  from  London.  Of 
all  that  they  saw  and  heard,  they  alone  were  constant  in 
the  shifting  landscape. 

"After  four  years  !"  she  murmured. 

He  stopped  rowing  and  gazed  at  her  wonderingly,  re 
peating  her  words,  "After  four  years !" 

Then  a  familiar  voice  leapt  out  at  them  from  a  sky-blue 
house-boat,  with  sky-blue  curtains  fluttering  in  the  windows 
and  a  rim  of  scarlet  geraniums  running  round  it  in  boxes. 
The  voice  lent  the  touch  of  humor  to  their  tenderness, 
which  saves  sentiment  from  sadness  and  makes  it  ecstatic. 
It  sang  to  the  twinkling  tones  of  a  mandolin,  struck  sharply : 


A   GOLDEN    WORLD  277 

"Come,  tickle  me  here; 
For  I  ain't  what  you  thought  me — 
I  ain't   so   'igh   and   so   'aughty,    my  dear. 
But  there's  right  times  for  lovin', 
And  cooin'  and  dovin', 
And  wrong  ways  of  flirtin' 
That's  woundin'  and  hurtin' — 
I'm  a  lydy,  d'you  hear? 
But  just  under  the  neck, 
Peck  ever  so  softly — 
I  allow  that,  my  dear. 
Not  my  lips — you're  too  near. 
Come  along,  lovey;   come  along,  duckie; 
Tickle  me,  tickle  me  here." 


CHAPTER   XXX 
HALF   IN   LOVE 

THE  Faun  Man  looked  up  from  his  writing.  Peter  had 
been  with  him  on  The  Skylark  for  five  days — five  gorgeous 
days.  He  had  found  to  his  surprise  that  the  golden  woman 
was  of  the  party.  So  far  as  outward  appearances  went,  the 
picture-smashing  incident  might  never  have  happened ; 
Cherry  conducted  herself  as  a  good  comrade  and  the  golden 
woman  called  her  "dear."  They  had  to  act  as  friends,  since 
the  Faun  Man  had  taken  rooms  for  them  at  the  same  hotel 
that  they  might  chaperone  each  other.  The  men  slept  on 
board  the  house-boat. 

It  was  nearly  six.  The  last  of  the  Finals  had  been 
rowed;  the  Regatta  was  ended.  Far  up  the  course  one 
could  still  hear  the  distant  cheering  from  the  lawn  where 
prizes  were  being  distributed.  The  most  sensational  race 
of  the  afternoon  had  been  the  Diamond  Sculls,  in  which 
Hardcastle  had  won  by  a  bare  half-length.  Peter  still 
tingled  with  the  madness  of  the  excitement,  the  splendid 
grit  of  the  contested  fight  and  the  wildness  of  the  applause. 
He  had  seen  a  slight  young  hero  lifted  out  of  his  shell  and 
carried  shoulder-high;  he  wanted  something  like  that  to 
happen  to  himself  so  that  Cherry  might  approve  of  him. 
He  had  just  come  from  accompanying  her  back  to  The  Red 
Lion;  in  an  hour,  when  she  had  changed  for  dinner,  he 
was  going  to  fetch  her.  He  had  one  more  night  before 
him — the  gayest  of  them  all,  when  the  crews  broke  training, 

and  then .  How  often  would  he  see  her  again?  The 

gray  old  town  would  recover  from  its  invasion,  and  settle 
back  into  routine  and  eventless  quiet.  Would  something 

278 


HALF    IN.  LOVE  279 

similar  happen  to  his  life?  Nevertheless,  he  had  one  more 
night. 

As  he  climbed  aboard  The  Skylark  and  entered,  the 
Faun  Man  looked  up.  "Peter,  I'm  tired  of  being  respec 
table — I  want  to  be  vulgar." 

Peter  threw  himself  into  a  creaking  wicker-chair. 
"That's  not  difficult;  it's  chiefly  a  matter  of  clothes." 

"And  accent,"  the  Faun  Man  added;  "refined  speech  is 
the  soap  and  water  of  good  manners." 

Peter  chuckled.     "Then  don't  tub." 

The  Faun  Man  stood  up  and  stretched  himself.  "I 
haven't.  I've  written  a  love-lyric  that  never  saw  a  nail 
brush.  It's  called  The  Belle  of  Shoreditch.  When  I've 
sung  it  to  you  I'll  tell  you  why  I  wrote  it.  Isn't  this  a 
ripping  tune?"  He  tinkled  it  over;  then  sat  down  cross- 
legged  on  the  floor  and  commenced  to  drawl  the  words  out : 

"My  bloke's  a  moke 
And  'e  cawn't  tell  me  why ; 
But  the  fust  time  'e  spoke 
'Twas  no  more  than  a  sigh. 
Says  I,  'Don't  mind  me ;  we'll  soon  be  dead.' 
Says  'e,  'If  yer  dies,  I'll  break  me  'ead.' 
Says  I,   'Why  not  yer  'eart  instead, 
Yer  quaint  old  moke?' 

"For  yer  cawn't  be  'appy  when  yer  'alf  in  love —    i 
Yer  must  taik  one  road  or  the  other ; 
Yer  can  maike  o'  life  an  up'ill  shove, 
Or  marry  a  bloke  wot  ain't  yer  brother." 

"Chorus,  Peter.    Pick  it  up." 

The  Faun  Man  nodded  the  time,  swaying  from  the  hips 
and  rolling  his  head. 

"For  yer  cawn't  be  'appy  when  yer  'alf  in  love." 

He  laid  his  mandolin  aside.  "Catchy,  isn't  it?  There 
mayn't  be  much  soap  about  the  dialect,  but  there's  plenty  of 
philosophy  in  the  sense.  More  than  one  person  in  this 
party  is  half  in  love.  Take  example  from  me,  Peter ;  don't 
make  a  fool  of  yourself." 


280  THE    RAFT 

Peter's  face  went  red.  He  didn't  think  he'd  been  so 
obvious.  To  escape  further  pursuit,  he  turned  the  corner 
rapidly,  "When  are  you  going  to  start  being  vulgar  ?" 

"Ah,  yes !"  The  Faun  Man  came  back.  He  struck  a 
pose,  his  left  hand  resting  on  his  hip,  his  right  beating 
against  his  breast.  "To-night,"  he  said.  "To-night  I  lose 
my  identity.  I  cease  to  be  Lorenzo  Arran  and  become  Bill 
Willow,  with  his  performing  troupe  of  eccentric  minstrels. 
I  wear  a  red  nose.  My  clothes  might  have  been  picked  out 
of  any  ash-barrel." 

Peter  interrupted.  "From  where  do  you  get  the  eccen 
tric  minstrels?" 

The  Faun  Man  grabbed  him  by  the  shoulder,  as  though 
he  feared  he  might  dash  away  when  the  full  glory  of  the 
project  was  divulged.  "My  boy,  you're  one  of  them.  You 
operate  upon  a  bun-bag  folded  over  a  hair-comb.  You 
wear — let  me  see?  You  wear  a  sheet,  with  holes  cut  in  it 
for  your  eyes  and  mouth.  Your  nose  may  remain  incognito ; 
I've  seen  better.  In  a  word,  you  play  the  ghost  to  my 
Hamlet." 

"And  Harry  and  the  girls  ?" 

The  Faun  Man  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  and 
reflected.  "Let  me  see!  Harry  blacks  his  physiognomy; 
the  mouth-organ  disguises  the  rest  of  him — it  always  does. 
And  as  for  the  girls — they  hang  their  hair  before  their 
faces  and  sing  through  it.  Believe  me,  nothing  alters  a 
woman's  appearance  so  much  as  letting  down  her  hair; 
that's  why  all  divorces  occur  after  marriage.  Now,  with 
me  it's  different;  I  look  my  best  in  bed.  Of  course  I  can't 
ask  anyone  to  see  me  there — that's  why  I'm  a  bachelor. — 
But  to  get  back  to  vulgarity;  we  start  to-night  in  a  punt. 
We'll  wait  till  it's  dusk,  and  we'll  have  lanterns.  We'll  col 
lect  money  for  the  private  insane  asylums  of  Alaska.  I'll 
make  a  little  speech  explaining  our  philanthropy.  Young 
feller,  Bill  Willow  and  his  minstrels  are  going  to  make  this 
old  Regatta  rememberable  for  years  to  come." 

"You  mean  it?" 

The  Faun   Man  grinned;  all  the  boy  in  him  was  up. 


HALF    IN    LOVE  281 

"Peter,  don't  look  so  pop-eyed;  of  course  I  mean  it — I 
mean  it  just  as  truly  as  Martin  Luther  did  when  he  said, 
'Here  I  take  my  stand,  because  I've  got  nowhere  to  sit 
down.'  A  profound  utterance!  I'm  tired  of  watching  all 
these  people  spooning  under  trees,  wearing  Leander  ties, 
comparing  their  girls'  eyes  to  the  stars  and  being  afraid  to 
touch  each  other.  They're  too  much  of  ladies  and  gentle 
men  ;  even  we  are.  To-night  I'm  going  to  be  a  ruffian.  Cut 
along  and  fetch  the  girls.  I've  got  to  write  another  song 
and  it's  almost  time  for  rehearsal." 

"A  dress  rehearsal?" 

"In  spots,"  said  the  Faun  Man. 

When  Peter  broke  the  news  to  the  golden  woman  she 
covered  her  face  and  laughed  through  her  hands.  She  had 
a  trick  of  treating  Cherry  and  Peter  like  children,  although 
she  looked  no  more  than  twenty  herself.  She  put  her  arms 
round  their  shoulders,  drawing  their  faces  close  together, 
on  either  side  of  hers.  She  was  so  happy  and  beautiful  it 
would  have  been  difficult  not  to  love  her.  "My  Loo-ard !" 
she  said,  "I'd  do  a  skirt-dance  to-night  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
water  under  the  punt.  I'm  all  against  getting  wet,  aren't 
you,  Cherry?" 

Peter  looked  knowing.  "The  first  thing  she'd  do  if  she 
knew  she  was  going  to  drown,  would  be  to  take  off  her 
shoes  and  stockings." 

The  golden  woman  pinched  the  girl's  cheek.  "Hulloa ! 
Secrets  already ! — But  I  don't  like  Lorie's  idea  for  disguis 
ing  us.  Let's  see  what  we  can  do  with  five  minutes'  shop 
ping." 

When  they  rowed  up  to  The  Skylark  they  were  met  by  a 
mysterious  silence.  Lifting  out  their  parcels,  they  tiptoed 
into  the  cabin.  Harry  was  bending  over  a  table-cloth,  with 
a  tooth-brush  in  his  hand  and  a  bottle  of  blacking  at  his 
elbow.  The  Faun  Man  was  melting  the  bottoms  of  candles 
and  making  them  stick  to  the  bottoms  of  empty  jam-jars. 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

They  both  looked  up. 

"I'm  getting  the  illuminations  ready,"  said  the  Faun  Man. 


282  THE    RAFT 

"And  I'm  making  our  flag,"  said  Harry,  scrubbing  hard 
at  the  table-cloth.  "Blacking's  awful  stuff ;  it's  so  smudgy." 

They  crowded  round  him  to  inspect  his  handiwork  and 
read: 


BILL   WILLOW'S 
IMPROMPTU   TROUPE   OF   ECCENTRIC 

MINSTRELS 

NO  FUN  WITHOUT  FOLLY 

ENVY  THE  POOR 

MAD 


The  Faun  Man  affixed  his  last  candle.  "Now,  then,  you 
crazy  people,  rehearsal's  in  five  minutes.  Let's  fortify  our 
tummies." 

Behind  the  house-boat  the  sun  was  setting;  in  patches, 
where  water  lay  most  still  among  rushes,  the  river  shone 
blood-red.  Sometimes,  beneath  the  window,  they  heard 
the  dip  of  oars  and  a  boat  drifted  past.  They  were  miles 
from  reality,  in  a  hushed  and  painted  world.  They  had 
become  little  children  for  the  moment,  though  the  Faun 
Man  had  called  it  "being  vulgar."  They  had  become  im 
mensely  serious  over  a  thing  which  didn't  matter.  There 
were  the  words  of  the  songs  to  learn,  and  then  the  tunes. 
After  that  there  were  the  cretonnes  to  cut  out  and  run 
together  into  burlesque  night-gowns,  extremely  ample  so 
as  to  cover  their  proper  dresses.  The  golden  woman  had 
surprised  a  prim  widow  in  Hart  Street  by  asking  for  "The 
ugliest  materials  you  have  in  your  shop."  She  had  met 
with  success;  no  materials  could  have  been  uglier.  One 
had  a  straw-colored  background,  strewn  with  gigantic  pop 
pies  ;  across  another  floated,  in  a  kind  of  sky-blue  gravy, 
the  unbarbered  heads  of  bodyless  angels.  The  Faun  Man 
and  Peter,  when  their  needles  lost  the  thread,  gave  up  sew 
ing  and  fastened  theirs  together  with  paper  pins.  And 
all  the  while  beneath  the  absurdity  of  it  there  was  an  at- 


HALF    IN    LOVE  283 

mosphere  of  tenderness,  as  if  folly  had  brought  them  all 
nearer.  The  Faun  Man  kept  watching  the  golden  woman ; 
and  Cherry  the  Faun  Man;  and  Peter,  Cherry.  As  for 
Harry,  he  was  the  only  one  whose  eyes  were  free  to  take 
in  everybody. 

When  night  had  fallen  they  slipped  on  their  masks  and 
stepped  into  the  punt.  Harry  took  the  pole  and  pushed  off 
from  The  Skylark.  The  Faun  Man  sat  next  to  the  golden 
woman,  humming  snatches  of  song  beneath  his  breath,  to 
which  he  picked  out  an  accompaniment  on  the  mandolin. 
She  lay  back  gazing  up  at  him. 

Above  a  wooded  knoll  the  moon  rose,  setting  the  river 
a-silver.  Trees  knelt  along  the  banks  like  cattle,  stooping 
to  drink.  In  the  distance  the  bridge  leapt  the  chasm  of 
darkness  and  lights  of  the  town  sprang  up.  Like  a  fleet  of 
dreams  against  green  wharfs  of  fairyland,  illumined  house 
boats  shone  fantastic.  Chains  of  lamps,  strung  through 
boughs  of  gardens,  gleamed  like  jewels  on  the  throat  of  the 
dusk.  The  river  sang  incoherently,  in  a  voice  that  was  half 
asleep.  Peter  slipped  his  hand  into  Cherry's;  her  hand 
seemed  quite  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing. 

And  now  they  drew  near  to  the  crowd  of  pleasure-craft, 
which  jostled  one  another  and  beat  the  water  like  a  run  of 
salmon  in  shallows.  Harry  laid  aside  the  pole  and  took  to 
the  paddle.  They  lit  their  candles  and  flew  their  heraldry. 
In  their  disguises  no  one  would  know  them ;  with  the  re 
straint  of  their  identities  lifted  from  them  they  scarcely 
recognized  themselves.  The  Faun  Man  gave  the  word ;  the 
punt  was  allowed  to  drift.  They  all  struck  up: 

"Go  h'on  away.     Go  h'on  away. 
Mind  yer,  I'm  meanin'  wot  I  say. 
My  'air  and  'at-pin's  gone  astray — 
Stop  yer  messin'. 
A  pound  a  week  yer  earn  yer  say — 

Oh,  I  don't  fink ! Two  bob  a  day's 

More   like.      I    loves   yer.      Yer   can    stay, 
Yer  bloomin'  blessin'." 


284  THE    RAFT 

They  tickled  the  people's  fancy;  they  were  so  obviously 
out  for  a  lark  and  so  evidently  intended  to  have  it.  When 
"My  bloke's  a  moke"  was  sung,  from  bank  to  bank  the 
chorus  was  taken  up;  even  the  strollers,  hanging  over  the 
bridge,  caught  the  swing  of  it. 

"For  yer  cawn't  be  'appy  when  yer  'alf  in  love — 
Yer  must  taik  one  road  or  the  other ; 
Yer  can  maike  o'  life  an  up'ill  shove, 
Or  marry  a  bloke  wot  ain't  yer  brother." 

The  Faun  Man  turned  to  the  golden  woman  and  ad 
dressed  the  words  to  her  shamelessly.  He  put  his  arm 
about  her,  and  drew  her  head  down  against  his  shoulder. 
Through  the  slits  in  her  mask  her  eyes  gleamed  up.  Peter, 
watching,  wondered  why  it  was  that  she  would  only  be 
kind  to  him  in  fun ;  he  had  noticed  that,  when  the  Faun 
Man  was  in  earnest,  she  never  responded. 

They  had  been  singing  for  an  hour,  pushed  this  way  and 
that,  too  jammed  to  attempt  steering.  Their  punt  had 
drifted  near  a  house-boat,  all  a-swing  with  lanterns  and 
steep  with  flowers.  Through  the  windows  they  could  see 
that  a  dinner  had  just  ended ;  tall  young  men  in  evening 
dress  sprawled  back  in  chairs.  Corks  were  still  popping. 

The  Faun  Man  whispered,  "They're  one  of  the  crews 
breaking  training.  What'll  we  give  'em?  Oh,  yes,  this'll 
do.  Tune  up.  So  they  tuned  up : 

"If  yer  gal  ain't  all  yer  thought  'er, 
And  for  everyfmg  yer've  bought  'er 
She  don't  seem  to  care  a  'appenny  pot  o'  glue; 
If  she  tells  yer  she  won't  miss  yer, 
And  she  doesn't  want  ter  kiss  yer, 
Though  yer've  cuddled  'er  from  'Ammersmif  ter  Kew; 
If  yer  little  side  excurshiums 
To  lands  of  pink  nasturtiums 
Don't  make  'er  'arf  so  soft  as  they  make  you, 
Why,  never   be  down'earted, 
For  that's  the  way  love  started — 
Adam  ended  wery  'appy — and  that's  true." 


HALF    IN    LOVE  285 

The  young  men  had  come  out.  They  were  slightly  un 
steady;  some  of  them  found  difficulty  in  keeping  their 
cigars  in  their  mouths.  They  held  one  another's  arms  and 
laughed  loudly.  Their  faces  were  flushed  and  their  hair 
ruffled.  But,  for  all  that,  because  they  were  young  and 
had  done  their  work  gamely  that  afternoon,  they  seemed  in 
keeping  with  the  atmosphere  of  carnival.  A  voice  on  the 
edge  of  the  darkness  shouted  one  word,  "Hardcastle."  The 
crowd  stood  up  in  their  boats,  and  commenced  to  cheer. 
From  the  group  of  crewmen  one  tall  fellow  was  pushed 
forward  and  lifted  on  a  chair.  He  looked  slim  as  a  girl  in 
his  evening-dress ;  his  thin,  rather  handsome  face,  wore 
a  weak,  inconsequential  expression.  When  the  babel  of 
voices  had  died  down  he  spoke  thickly  and  hesitatingly. 
"Yes,  I  won.  I  dunno.  Did  I  win?  I  can't  remember. 
Suppose  I  must  have.  One  of  you  chaps  tell  me  to-mor 
row. — Anyway,  if  I  did  win,  here's  to  the  losers.  Plucky 
devils !" 

Cherry  had  been  leaning  forward ;  her  mask  had  slipped 
aside  in  her  eagerness.  Hardcastle  saw  her.  He  stared — • 
made  an  effort  to  pull  his  wits  together.  In  a  second  he  had 
jumped  from  the  chair,  had  caught  her  by  the  hand,  was 
helping  her  aboard  the  house-boat.  She  held  on  to  Peter, 
laughing  and  dragging  him  after  her.  The  others  followed 
reluctantly — after  all,  they  were  out  for  adventure. 

As  soon  as  he  had  entered  the  cabin,  Hardcastle  slipped 
his  arms  about  her  and  swung  her  up  on  to  the  table  amid 
the  clatter  of  breaking  glasses.  "Sing,  you  little  beauty. 
Sing  something." 

The  Faun  Man  pushed  his  way  forward ;  the  matter  was 
going  beyond  a  joke — his  intention  was  to  stop  it.  The 
golden  woman  clutched  him,  "Don't  make  a  row,  Lorie.- 
They  don't  know  who  we  are.  We've  let  ourselves  in  fof 
it ;  let's  go  through  with  it  like  sports." 

Cherry  seemed  not  at  all  offended ;  the  spirit  of  baccha- 
nalia  possessed  her.  Her  usually  pale  face  had  a  pretty 
flush.  She  stood  tiptoe,  her  red  lips  pouting,  watching 
through  the  slits  in  her  mask  these  fine  young  animals  whom 


286  THE    RAFT 

the  river  had  applauded.  Her  eyes  came  back  to  Hard- 
castle.  "I  don't  want  to  sing."  It  was  like  a  shy  child 
talking.  "If  you  like,  I'll  dance." 

In  a  trice  Hardcastle  had  lifted  her  again  in  his  arms. 
To  balance  herself  she  had  to  cling  to  his  neck  and  shoul 
ders.  "Clear  the  table,"  he  shouted. 

With  his  free  hand  he  commenced  tugging  at  the  cloth. 
Others  helped  him.  With  a  jangle  and  smash  that  could  be 
heard  across  the  river,  silver,  glass  and  lighted  candles 
were  swept  to  the  floor.  He  set  her  back  on  the  polished 
surface  and  ran  to  the  piano  in  the  corner,  crying,  "I'll 
tickle  the  ivories — you  dance." 

With  his  head  turned,  he  played  and  watched  her.  From 
the  ruin  she  had  caught  up  a  red  rose  and  held  it  between 
her  red  lips  by  the  stalk.  Her  feet  began  to  move,  slowly 
at  first — then  wildly.  She  swayed  and  tossed,  glided  stealth 
ily,  bent  and  shot  upward  like  a  dart.  Her  breath  was  com 
ing  fast — all  the  while  her  gray  eyes  sought  the  man's  who 
watched  her  across  his  shoulder.  The  other  men  were  in 
fected  by  her  madness — they  took  hands  and  circled  the 
table,  singing  whatever  came  into  their  heads.  To  Peter  it 
was  torture.  He  thought  that  she  knew  it.  He  guessed 
that  she  had  done  it  on  purpose.  He  had  wearied  her  with 
his  respect.  He  remembered  one  of  the  Faun  Man's  say 
ings,  "No  woman  likes  to  be  respected;  she  prefers  to  be 
loved,  even  by  a  man  whom  she  doesn't  want." 

The  piano  stopped.  Hardcastle  leapt  up.  "Here,  I  want 
to  see  her." 

"No.    No,"  cried  Cherry. 

"I  do,  and  I  will,"  he  retorted.  He  had  stumbled  against 
the  table  and  caught  her  by  the  knees  ;  his  hands  were  grop 
ing  up  to  tear  aside  her  mask.  An  arm  shot  out ;  he  stag 
gered.  Another  blow  struck  him  between  the  eyes.  He 
measured  his  length  on  the  floor.  Peter  dragged  Cherry  to 
him,  pressing  her  against  him.  All  was  hubbub.  The  Faun 
Man  and  Harry  were  on  either  side  of  him,  forming  a 
guard.  Of  a  sudden  the  lights  went  out — some  one  had 
knocked  over  the  lamps.  In  the  darkness  the  sound  of 


HALF   IN    LOVE  287 

scuffling  subsided.  The  Faun  Man's  voice  was  heard,  say 
ing,  "Look  here,  you  chaps,  that  wasn't  very  decent  of 
Hardcastle.  He's  drunk,  so  we'll  say  no  more  about  it. 
But  you're  gentlemen.  Let  us  out.  We're  going." 

As  they  stepped  into  the  night,  Cherry  felt  warm  lips 
touch  her  forehead.  She  heard  protesting  voices,  and  one 
which  whispered,  "You  get  off  with  her.  We'll  follow." 

The  punt  stole  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  river.  When 
she  lifted  her  head  from  the  cushions  she  found  that  the 
ripples  on  the  water  were  a-silver,  and  that  a  solitary  figure 
was  seated  in  the  stern,  paddling. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 
A  NIGHT  WITH  THE   MOON 

HE  was  taking  her  in  the  wrong  direction.  Why?  To 
reach  the  Red  Lion  he  should  have  steered  upstream.  Far 
behind,  chiseled  out  by  the  moonlight,  the  town  stood  sharp 
against  the  star-strewn  sky — sagging  roofs,  twisted  chim 
ney-pots  and  tall  spires.  From  its  walls  came  the  shouts 
of  roisterers  and  the  sound  of  discordant  singing,  which 
broke  off  abruptly,  only  to  commence  again  more  faintly. 

She  was  inclined  to  be  penitent.  She  was  both  annoyed 
and  amused  with  herself  for  what  she  had  done.  On  the 
spur  of  the  moment  she  was  always  doing  wild  things  like 
that  to  people  she  cared  for — doing  them  that  she  might 
measure  their  love  by  her  power  to  hurt  them.  She  won 
dered  whether  he  blamed  her,  and  how  long  he  would  keep 
silent. 

The  river  had  become  a  pathway  of  ebony,  inlaid  with 
silver  by  the  moonlight.  Along  its  banks  illuminations 
smoldered,  scorching  red  wounds  in  the  shadows.  Here 
and  there  a  candle  flared,  sank  and  died,  like  a  heart  which 
had  broken  itself  with  longing.  Craft  drifted  like  logs 
through  the  blackness.  They  seemed  deserted,  unpiloted; 
yet  they  bore  with  them  the  sense  of  lips  that  whispered 
against  other  lips  and  of  hands  that  touched.  "To-mor 
row  !"  everything  seemed  to  say.  "To-morrow !  But  there 
is  still  to-night." 

To-morrow  lovers  would  have  vanished.  Faces,  which 
in  the  past  week  one  had  learnt  to  recognize,  about  which 
one  had  built  up  fancies,  would  be  seen  no  more.  The 
haunting  poignancy  of  parting  was  in  the  night,  the  mem 
ory  of  things  exquisite  and  unlasting. 

288 


A   NIGHT   WITH    THE    MOON  289 

And  Peter,  he  couldn't  understand  what  had  happened  to 
him.  It  seemed  a  dream  from  which  he  was  waking;  he 
wanted  to  sleep  again  and  recapture  the  illusion.  From 
the  first  he  had  recognized  an  atmosphere  of  danger  in  her 
presence.  She  was  so  foreign  to  his  experience ;  it  was 
scarcely  likely  that  a  friendship  with  her  would  lead  to 
happiness.  And  yet  he  could  not  do  without  her.  On  those 
sunlit  mornings  aboard  The  Skylark,  when  he  had  opened 
his  eyes  to  hear  the  river  tapping,  had  looked  out  of  his 
window  to  see  the  breeze  whipping  the  water  and  the 
plumed  trees  nodding,  there  had  been  no  rest  in  the  day's 
gladness  till  he  had  heard  her  tripping  footsteps.  She  had 
crept  into  his  blood.  All  past  things  were  unremembered — 
past  ambitions  and  past  loyalties.  Every  beauty  grouped 
itself  about  her.  The  grayness  of  her  eyes  drew  his  soul 
out.  The  soft,  slurring  notes  of  her  voice  were  for  him 
the  finest  music.  Had  he  been  offered  the  joy  of  one  month 
with  her,  for  which  all  the  years  of  his  life  should  be  for 
feit,  he  would  willingly  have  accepted.  The  thought  of 
marriage  had  already  occurred  to  him.  That  he  should 
be  only  nineteen  was  a  tragedy.  Would  she  wait  for  him? 
With  no  more  than  a  week's  acquaintance  by  which  to 
judge  he  knew  that  she  would  wait  for  no  one.  She  was 
elusive — one  moment  a  child,  the  next  a  woman.  And  she 
sat  there  gazing  at  him  through  the  shadows,  her  hands 
folded  meekly  on  her  breast — a  nunlike  trick  which  she  had 
learnt  at  the  convent.  It  gave  her  an  appearance  of  piety, 
which  the  red  defiance  of  her  mouth  and  gray  challenge  of 
her  eyes  negatived.  She  was  the  first  woman  he  had  loved. 
He  loved  her  uncalculatingly,  with  his  soul  and  body,  as  a 
man  loves  but  once,  when  he  is  young. 

They  had  passed  The  Skylark  and  were  nearing  the 
island.  All  the  other  boats  were  left  behind.  Her  voice 
came  to  him  throbbingly,  like  a  harp  fingered  softly.  "You're 
disappointed  in  me.  You'll  often  be  disappointed." 

He  could  not  bear  that  she  should  blame  herself.  He 
drew  in  his  paddle.  "I'm  not,  only " 


290  THE    RAFT 

"Only  what  ?  A  man  always  says  'only'  when  he's  trying 
to  deceive  himself." 

"Only,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

She  didn't  answer  his  question.  How  could  she  tell  why? 
Because  she  was  young;  because  she  knew  that  she  was 
pretty.  "You  looked  splendid,"  she  said,  "when  you  struck 
him."  And  then  she  mentioned  the  one  thing  concerning 
which  he,  as  a  man,  would  have  kept  silent.  "You  kissed 
me,  Peter." 

His  blood  quickened.  Was  she  reproaching  him  or  simply 
saying,  "You  love  me;  we're  alone  together?"  She  was 
leaning  forward  now,  looking  away  from  him,  her  throat 
resting  against  the  back  of  her  hand.  He  crept  toward 
her,  knelt  at  her  feet  and  pressed  his  lips  against  her  dress. 

Her  eyes  came  back  to  him.  "You'd  better  go  away  and 
forget  me." 

He  slipped  his  arm  about  her  body,  drawing  her  to  him. 
"Do  you  want  me  to  go  away — to  go  out  of  your  life  for 
ever  ?" 

"No."  The  word  was  whispered  and  slowly  uttered. 
She  touched  him  gently,  patting  his  hand.  "Peter,  I'm  not 
your  sort.  You  know  that." 

"But  you  are  my  sort,  or  else  how  could  I  feel — feel 
what  I  am  feeling?  You'll  learn  to  love  me,  Cherry." 

She  took  it  without  a  tremor,  this  declaration  which  had 
cost  him  such  effort.  She  shook  her  head.  "The  Faun 
Man  tells  Eve  that  every  time  they're  together.  I  wonder 
how  many  men  have  said  it.  Love  comes  in  an  instant. 
You  can't  learn  it." 

"But  why  not?" 

She  bent  over  him  like  a  mother.  Her  mouth  was 
rounded ;  no  wonder  they  called  her  Cherry.  She  was 
adorable  in  compassion.  "You  don't  know  me.  I'm  not  at 
all  what  you  think.  Ask  the  Faun  Man.  Don't  you  re 
member  at  the  Happy  Cottage  ?  It  wasn't  for  breaking  his 
pictures  that  he  sent  me  to  the  convent." 

"But  I'll  make  you  love  me,"  he  insisted.  "You  don't 
know  what  I'd  do  for  you.  I'd  die  for  you,  Cherry.  There's 


A   NIGHT   WITH   THE    MOON  291 

nothing  about  you  that  I  don't  worship.  You're  so  long 

and  sweet — and "  He  laid  his  face  against  her  cold, 

white  cheek  and  caught  his  breath.  She  was  like  marble; 
he  could  feel  no  stir  in  her — and  his  every  nerve  was  throb 
bing.  "Don't  you  like  to  be  loved?" 

She  seemed  to  marvel  at  his  passion,  as  if  it  were  a  thing 
which  she  did  not  understand,  by  which  she  was  puzzled. 
Oddly,  to  his  way  of  thinking,  she  showed  no  terror  of  him. 
Her  eyes  dwelt  on  him  with  clear  and  kindly  interest. 
"Every  girl  likes  to  be  loved.  But  that's  different.  I  don't 

think  you'll  ever  teach  me,  Peter.  And  yet .  Hadn't 

we  better  be  getting  back  ?" 

"Oh,  not  yet."  He  felt  that  he  was  going  to  lose  her — 
lose  her  forever.  Surely,  surely  he  could  rouse  her  to  a 
sense  of  the  poetry  and  drama  which  was  burning  in  his 
blood.  It  was  impossible  that  she  should  not  feel  it.  She 
had  been  sleeping,  as  he  had  been  sleeping,  letting  love  go 
by  with  its  banners  and  drums.  "Oh,  not  yet,"  he  pleaded ; 
"all  these  years  we've  lived — we've  hardly  ever  been  to 
gether." 

She  broke  the  suspense  by  laughing.  "What's  your 
favorite  hymn,  Peter?" 

He  was  puzzled.  "Haven't  got  one.  Never  thought 
about  it.  What  makes  you  ask?" 

She  wriggled  her  shoulders.  "Because  mine's  'Yield  not 
to  temptation.' " 

He  didn't  catch  the  significance  of  her  remark.  She  saw 
that.  "Still  a  little  boy,  aren't  you?  A  little  boy  of  nine 
teen,  who  thinks  he's  in  love.  There  are  heaps  of  other 
girls  in  the  world. — Yes,  I'll  come." 

He  piled  the  cushions  for  her;  then  took  the  paddle  and 
seated  himself  so  he  could  face  her.  Their  conversation 
was  carried  on  by  fits  and  starts,  with  long  pauses. 

"He  was  a  beast."    She  spoke  reflectively. 

"Who  was?" 

"Hardcastle." 

"But  I  thought — I  was  afraid  you  liked  him." 

She  trailed  her  hand  in  the  black  water,  watching  how 


292  THE    RAFT 

it  slipped  through  her  fingers.  "I  did  like  him  for  the  mo 
ment.  That  proves  I'm  not  nice.  Women  often  like  men 
who  are  beasts." 

"But  you  don't  like  him  now  ?" 

She  teased  him,  keeping  him  waiting.  "I'm  glad  you 
struck  him." 

Presently  she  said,  "Peter,  I've  been  thinking,  why  can't 
we  have  good  times  together?  We  could  be  friends  and— 
nothing  serious,  but  more  than  exactly  friends.  Lots  of 
girls  do  it." 

Peter  stopped  paddling.  "I  should  have  to  love  you.  I 
should  be  always  hoping  that " 

"Then  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you,"  she  said. 

He  had  been  silent  for  some  minutes.  "Where  did  you 
learn  so  much  about  men  ?  I  know  nothing  about  women." 

"Where  did  I  learn?"  she  laughed.  "Girls  know  without 
learning.  Until  to-night  no  man  ever  kissed  me — not  the 
way  you  kissed  me.  So  you  needn't  be  jealous." 

The  punt  nosed  its  way  among  rushes  and  came  to  rest. 
He  crouched  against  her  feet,  holding  her  hands,  trembling 
at  her  nearness.  The  deep  stillness  of  the  night  enfolded 
them.  Reeds  stood  up  tall  on  every  side,  shutting  out  the 
world.  Above  their  heads  a  flock  of  fleecy  clouds  wan 
dered,  with  unseen  shepherds  swinging  stars  for  lanterns. 
The  man  in  the  moon  looked  out  of  his  window  with  a 
tolerant  smile  on  his  mouth.  She  lay  against  the  cushions, 
white  and  impassive,  her  long,  fine  throat  stretched  back. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "look  up  there ;  those  clouds,  they  don't 
know  where  they're  going.  Someone's  driving  them  from 
one  world  to  another,  like  sheep  to  pasture.  We're  like 
that ;  someone's  driving  us — and  we  don't  know  where 
we're  going."  And  then,  "You  love  me,  with  all  your  heart 
• — yes,  I  believe  that ;  and  I — I  love  someone  else.  We  each 
love  someone  who  doesn't  care ;  and  I  have  to  let  you  do  it 
—I,  who  know  the  pain  of  it.  Poor  Peter,  what  a  pity  God 
didn't  make  us  so  that  we  could  love  each  other." 

And  again,  "I  don't  know  any  man  in  the  world  with 
whom  I'd  trust  myself  to  do  what  we're  doing.  Oh,  I 


A    NIGHT   WITH   THE    MOON  293 

don't  want  to  hurt  you,  Peter.  If  ever  I  should  hurt  you, 
you'll  remember?" 

He  couldn't  speak — didn't  want  to  speak.  He  and  she 
were  awake  and  together,  while  all  the  world  slept — that 
was  sufficient. 

How  still  it  was !  He  could  hear  the  soft  intake  of  her 
breath  and  the  rustle  of  her  dress.  "So  this  is  love !"  he 
kept  saying  to  himself.  It  wasn't  at  all  what  he  had  ex 
pected.  It  wasn't  a  wild  rush  of  words  and  an  eager 
clutching  of  hands.  It  wasn't  an  extravagance  of  actions 
and  language.  It  was  just  tenderness.  He  unbent  her 
fingers,  marveling  at  their  frailness.  He  pressed  the  palm 
of  her  hand  against  his  mouth.  He  felt  like  a  little  child  as 
he  sat  beside  this  silent  girl. 

Cherry  lifted  herself  on  the  cushions.  She  gave  him 
both  her  hands. 

"What  is  it?" 

She  seemed  afraid.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice  trembled. 
"When  two  people  are  married,  is  it  always  one  who  allows 
and  one  who  loves  ?  You  don't  know ;  you  can't  tell  me. 
If  both  don't  love  it  must  be  terrible.  I  couldn't  bear  only 
to  give  everything ;  and  only  to  take  everything,  that  would 
be  worse.  Oh,  Peter,  I  have  to  tell  you.  It  was  like  that 
with  my  mother.  She  couldn't  give  everything  to  my  father, 
and  then — she  found  someone  else.  My  father  worshiped 
her — just  as  you'd  worship  me,  Peter;  when  he  knew  that 
she  was  going  away  from  him  he — he  kept  her."  She  cov 
ered  her  face.  "He  was  hanged  for  it.  And  that's  why  the 

Faun  Man .  He  was  his  friend.  Oh,  I'm  afraid  of 

myself ;  I  almost  wish  we'd  never  met." 

He  held  her  to  him ;  she  was  shaken  with  sobbing.  Sud 
denly  he  recalled  how  he  had  first  seen  her,  rushing  out  of 
the  Happy  Cottage,  with  her  brown-black  hair  tumbled 
about  her  white  face  and  her  gray  eyes  wide  with  tragedy. 
She  was  so  wilful,  and  she  so  needed  protection. 

"Cherry,  Cherry.  Don't  be  frightened.  Don't  cry,  dear. 
I  love  you.  Nothing  like  that  could  ever  happen  to  us." 


294  THE   RAFT 

She  stared  at  him.  "Nothing  like  that  could  ever  hap 
pen!  I  expect  they  said  that." 

They!  They!  And  was  it  they  who  had  called  her 
Cherry,  because  her  lips  were  red  ? 

Her  eyes  closed.  Her  lashes  were  wet;  beneath  them 
were  shadows.  He  gazed  on  her,  clasping  her  to  him  ten 
derly,  as  though  she  were  a  bewildered  bird  which  had 
flown  blindly  into  his  breast.  Her  breath  came  softly.  He 
thought  her  sleeping  and  kissed  her  mouth;  her  hand 
sought  his  and  lay  there  trustingly. 

What  pictures  he  had  of  her!  He  saw  her  dancing  be 
fore  the  flushed  and  foolish  faces  of  those  men;  he  saw 
her  as  he  had  met  her  on  the  bridge  in  her  cool,  blowy 
summer  dress ;  he  saw  her  in  the  Haunted  Wood,  where  the 
little  river  ran,  bidding  him  turn  back.  Because  of  what 
she  had  just  told  him,  he  felt  that  he  had  never  loved  her 
until  now. 

Like  a  counterpane  tucking  in  the  sleepy  stars,  the  mist 
of  dawn  crept  up.  Near  into  the  bank,  behind  the  wall  of 
rushes,  a  moor-hen  was  splashing.  The  countryside  whis 
pered  with  creature  sounds.  A  bird  was  calling.  How 
long  had  it  been  calling?  An  owl  flew  over  his  head,  in 
haste  to  keep  pace  with  the  retreat  of  darkness.  Along 
the  east,  above  the  spears  of  the  reeds,  a  little  redness 
spread.  A  thrush  tried  over  a  few  staves.  Before  he  had 
burst  in  song  a  perky  blackbird  was  piping  valiantly.  The 
fields  fluttered,  as  though  a  messenger  ran  through  them, 
telling  wild-flowers  to  raise  their  heads.  The  east  smoldered 
higher;  conflagration  smoked  sideways  and  upward.  A 
door  opened  in  a  cloud ;  the  sun  stepped  out.  Like  the  un 
hurried  crash  of  an  orchestra  the  world  shouted.  It  hap 
pened  every  morning  while  men  slept.  It  was  stupendous — 
appalling. 

How  white  she  was!  He  bent  over  her.  Her  eyes 
opened.  She  gave  his  arm  a  little  hug.  "Were  you  kissing 
me,  Peter?  You  mustn't,  mustn't  love  me  like  that." 

Ah,  mustn't!  It  was  too  late  to  forbid  him.  The  in 
sanity  of  the  night  was  all  forgotten;  only  its  sweetness 


A   NIGHT   WITH    THE    MOON  295 

was  left.  From  his  window  the  man  in  the  moon  looked 
down ;  his  mouth  seemed  to  droop  at  the  corners.  He 
would  watch  for  them  next  night,  and  they  would  not  come. 
He  might  never  know  the  end  of  their  story.  He  was  de 
spondent  ;  he  had  to  go  to  bed. 

Peter  was  charing  her  hands. 

"How  good  you  are !" 

"Not  good.     Only  in  love." 

And  she,  "I  dreamt  of  you.  We  were  in  the  Haunted 
Wood.  My  feet  were  bare,  and " 

He  held  her  eyes  earnestly.  "I  wish  I  had  been  there. 
All  these  years  it  was  the  grayness  of  your  eyes  and — and 
something  else  that  I  remembered." 

"What  else?    No,  tell  me." 

"The  whiteness  of  your  feet,"  he  whispered. 

Again  they  were  in  fairyland.  Yellow  as  a  topaz  set  in 
turquoise  the  sun  stood  free  in  the  heavens.  Inhabitants 
of  the  fearless  morning  went  busily  about  their  tasks.  Clear 
as  a  mirror,  through  the  perfumed  stillness  of  meadows  the 
river  ran.  Mists  curled  from  off  its  surface  and  hung 
white  in  tree-tops.  Within  hand-stretch  fish  leapt;  peering 
over  the  side  of  the  punt,  they  could  follow  their  retreat 
through  waving  weeds  and  black  willow-stumps.  Only  a 
magpie  noticed  their  passage  and  became  interested,  flut 
tering  from  bough  to  bough  and  asking  them,  "What  d'you 
want?  What  d'you  want?"  Dragon-flies  ventured  forth  as 
the  sun's  heat  strengthened ;  butterflies  and  the  teeming  in 
sect  world  rose  out  of  water-lilies  and  foxgloves — out  of 
the  destructible  homes  which  Nature  builds  for  their  brief 
and  perishable  existence.  He  and  she,  drifting-  through  the 
golden  quiet  with  clasped  hands,  seized  their  moment  un- 
questioningly,  and  were  thankful  for  it. 

Ahead  they  saw  swans ;  then  cattle  wading  knee-deep. 
Rounding  a  bend,  they  came  in  sight  of  a  trellised  garden, 
with  green  tables  set  out  on  a  close-cut  lawn.  Boats  swung 
idly  in  the  stream,  tethered  to  a  landing.  In  the  back 
ground  was  a  thatched  house,  from  whose  chimney  smoke 
waved  back  in  a  thin  plume.  When  they  came  near  enough 


296  THE    RAFT 

they  made  out  a  white  post,  with  a  sign  swinging  from  it. 
On  the  sign  was  depicted  a  brown  bird,  fluttering  its  wings 
in  a  golden  cage;  painted  over  it  were  the  words,  The 
Winged  Thrush.  In  lifting  their  eyes  to  read  the  sign  they 
caught  sight  of  the  faint  moon,  weakly  smiling,  as  though 
saying,  "I've  got  to  go.  They  won't  let  me  stay.  Good 
bye,  and  good  luck." 

They  landed,  leaving  their  foolish  disguises  in  the  punt. 
Through  the  dew-drenched  wistfulness  of  summer  roses 
they  approached  the  inn,  and  entered.  The  room  was 
strewn  with  sawdust,  and  stale  with  the  smell  of  beer  and 
tobacco.  An  ostler-like  person,  with  a  full-blown  face  and 
little  blue  pig's  eyes,  met  them.  They  asked  for  breakfast. 
He  knew  his  business  well  enough  to  suggest  that  missie 
would  prefer  to  have  it  in  an  arbor. 

While  they  ate  he  hovered  round  them,  continually  in 
venting  excuses  to  interrupt  their  privacy.  He  reminded 
them  of  the  magpie  in  his  frank  display  of  curiosity.  He 
informed  them  that  trade  was  wery  bad.  He'd  'arf  a  mind 
to  try  'is  luck  in  Australy.  If  it  weren't  for  the  young 
bloods  from  Henley,  he'd  'ardly  take  a  'appeny  from  month 
to  month.  Did  they  know  of  anyone,  an  artist  chap  for 
h'instance,  who'd  like  to  combine  pleasure  with  business  by 
tryin'  his  'and  at  runnin'  a  nice  pub  ?  An  artist  chap  could 
paint  that  bloomin'  bird  out,  and  call  the  place  The  White 
Hart  or  somethin'  h'attractive.  Whoever  'card  of  an  inn 
payin'  which  was  called  The  Winged  Thrush?  People 
didn't  want  their  meals  messed  about  by  a  bloomin'  poet. 
Not  but  what  the  sitiyation  was  so  pleasant  that  he'd  tried 
to  write  poetry  'isself — love-poetry  for  the  most  part.  His 
verses  allaws  came  to  'im  when  'e  were  groomin'  the  'orses. 
If  things  didn't  brisk  up,  'e'd  give  Australy  a  chance,  as 
'e'd  many  times  promised. 

At  last  he  left  them.  Cherry  gazed  out  dreamily  across 
the  river.  "I  wonder,  is  it  true  that  one  has  always  to  pay 
with  sorrow  for  happiness?" 

Peter  shivered.     How  old  she  could  be  when  she  chose 


A   NIGHT   WITH    THE    MOON  297 

to  borrow  other  people's  disillusions !  He  tried  to  restore 
her  to  cheerfulness.  "What  a  pagan  notion!  It's  the  old 
idea  of  the  gods  being  jealous.  You  shouldn't  think  such 
thoughts." 

"But  happiness  does  bring  sorrow,"  she  insisted.  'We 
shall  have  to  pay  for  this  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and 
to-morrow." 

Her  voice  trailed  off,  giving  him  a  vision  of  all  the  to 
morrows  when  he  would  be  without  her.  And  he  wasn't 
sure  of  her.  She  had  told  him  that  she  didn't  love  him. 
He  drew  her  closer.  "But  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrows  is 
to  have  no  happier  things  to  remember — to  be  old  and  never 
to  have  been  young,  to  be  lonely  and  never  to  have  been 
loved.  You  mournful  little  person,  do  you  think  you'd  be 
any  happier  because  you'd  never  known  happiness  ?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a 
touch  of  defiance.  "I'm  not  clever;  I  can't  argue."  Then, 
her  face  clearing  as  suddenly  as  it  had  clouded,  "I  can't 
think  why  you  like  me,  Peter." 

He  laughed  gladly.  "And  I  can't  tell  you,  Cherry.  It's 
as  though  I'd  waited  for  you  always,  without  knowing  for 
whom  I  was  waiting.  I  was  a  kind  of  winged  thrush  in  a 
golden  cage ;  but  you've  opened  the  door,  now  you've  come." 

His  explanation  wasn't  sufficient.  She  snuggled  her  chin 
against  the  back  of  her  hand  and  watched  him  seriously,  as 
though  she  suspected  him  of  hiding  something.  "But  what 
is  it  that  you  like  most  about  me?" 

He  tried  to  discover;  he  dug  back  into  his  own  sensa 
tions.  What  was  it  that  he  liked  most  about  her  ?  For  the 
life  of  him  he  couldn't  put  it  into  language.  Then  he 
thought  he  might  find  out  by  examining  the  white  face,  with 
the  red  lips  and  tragic  eyes,  of  the  girl-woman  who  had 
asked  the  question.  What  an  uncanny  faculty  she  had  for 
stillness !  A  sunbeam,  falling  from  the  leaves  above,  crept 
up  her  slender  throat  and  nestled  in  her  hair. 

He  shook  his  head.  "It's  just  you,  Cherry.  Your  voice, 
your  eyes,  the  way  you  walk,  the  way  you  try  to  be  sad. 


298  THE    RAFT 

It's  just  you  and  your  sweetness,  Cherry.  I  think  if  I  didn't 
love  you  so  much  I  could  say  it  better." 

She  stood  up.  "You  poor  boy,  you've  said  it  well  enough. 
I  wish  I  could  feel  like  that. — And  now  we  should  be  going." 

They  had  stepped  outside  the  arbor;  they  halted  at  the 
sound  of  voices.  Coming  round  the  bend  was  a  scratch 
eight,  the  oars  striking  the  water  raggedly.  The  men  were 
joking  and  laughing;  the  cox,  a  pipe  hanging  from  his 
mouth,  was  urging  them  to  spurt  with  humorous  insults. 
Having  landed,  they  tumbled  into  their  sweaters  and  came 
strolling  through  the  garden.  They  were  discussing  the 
previous  night  in  careless  voices. 

"Did  you  hear  about  Hardcastle? — When  he  isn't  in 
training  he's  always  like  that.  Ugh !  At  six  o'clock  a  hero 
— by  midnight  a  swine  you  wouldn't  care  to  touch." 

The  voices  passed  out  of  earshot. 

Cherry  turned  to  Peter,  "And  I  let  him  touch  me.  I'd 
have  known  by  instinct  if  I'd  been  nice.  Oh,  Peter,  you 
mustn't  love  me." 

When  he  attempted  to  kiss  her  she  refused  to  allow  it, 
saying,  "I'm  not  your  sort." 

Paddling  back  between  flowering  banks,  where  trees  cast 
deep  shadows  and  birds  sang  full-throatedly,  she  again  be 
came  tender.  "Life's  just  a  yesterday,  Peter — a  continual 
bidding  good-bye  and  coming  back  from  pleasures." 

Her  sadness  hurt  him.  She  knew  it;  she  told  herself 
that  it  would  always  hurt  him.  He  didn't  want  ever  to  say 
good-bye  to  her.  And  she,  she  felt  sure  that  their  com 
radeship  would  be  always  finding  a  new  ending. 

"Cherry,  darling,"  he  reproached  her,  "don't  go  in  search 
of  unhappiness.  Life's  a  to-morrow  as  well  as  a  yester 
day;  it's  full  of  splendid  things — things  which  aren't  ex 
pected.  We've  all  the  to-morrows  before  us." 

She  trailed  her  hand  in  the  water,  snatching  at  the  lilies, 
as  if  by  an  effort  so  slight  she  could  delay  their  progress 
and  prolong  the  present.  She  didn't  lift  her  eyes  when  she 
whispered,  "I  was  thinking  of  that — of  all  the  to-morrows 
before  us." 


A   NIGHT  WITH   THE   MOON  299 

Again  her  words  brought  a  vision  of  the  long  road  of 
future  days,  down  which  he  would  walk  without  her. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  Surely  she  would  learn  to 
love  him!  Reluctantly  he  paddled  forward  to  their  place 
of  parting. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

IF  YOU  WON'T  COME  TO  HEAVEN, 
THEN 

THE  train  swung  down  the  shining  rails  and  rumbled 
into  Paddington.  Passengers  pulled  down  their  parcels 
from  the  racks,  jumped 'out  and  disappeared  in  the  crowd. 
Peter  sat  on.  This  carriage  at  least  had  known  her ;  she 
had  looked  in  through  its  window  and  had  waved  her  hand. 
Out  there  in  the  stone-paved  wilderness  of  London  there 
was  nothing  they  had  shared. 

A  porter  looked  in  at  the  door.  "Train  don't  go  no 
further,  sir.  Lend  you  a  'and?  Want  a  keb?" 

In  the  cab,  Peter  closed  his  eyes,  shutting  out  the  cheer 
ful  grime  of  streets,  the  nipped  impertinence  of  Cockney 
faces,  the  monotonous  anonymity  of  the  ceaseless  proces 
sion — the  stench  of  this  vast  human  stable  where  lives 
were  stalled  and  broken.  He  was  trying  to  get  back  to 
green  banks,  to  a  river  molten  in  the  sunset,  and  to  a  red- 
lipped  girl. 

Was  she  thinking  of  him?  If  they  thought  of  one  an 
other  at  the  same  moment,  could  their  thoughts  meet  and 
interchange? — But  she  didn't  love  him.  Oh,  the  things  he 
had  left  unsaid — the  things  he  would  say  to  make  her  love 
him  now,  if  she  sat  beside  him ! — She  had  spoken  truly — 
happiness  had  to  be  paid  for  with  sorrow.  His  share  of 

the  paying  had   commenced,   and  hers ?     Would  she 

dodge  payment  by  forgetting?  The  law  of  change  was 
cruel;  it  diminished  all  things,  even  the  most  sacred,  to 
mere  incidents  in  a  passing  pageant.  A  pigmy  charioteer, 
with  the  futile  hands  of  imagination,  he  was  making  the 
old  foolish  endeavor  to  rein  in  Time's  stallions. 

300 


IF   YOU   WON'T   COME   TO    HEAVEN      301 

He  pictured  himself  as  painted  on  a  frieze  with  her  in 
the  moment  of  their  supreme  elation — the  moment  when 
attainment  had  been  certain,  just  before  it  was  realized. 
The  frieze  should  represent  a  meadow  in  the  early  morning, 
a  river  with  mists  rising  from  off  it,  and  a  boy,  stooping  his 
lips  over  the  naked  feet  of  a  girl.  Someone  else  had  ut 
tered  the  same  fancy: 

"Fair    Youth,    beneath    the    trees,    thou    canst    not    leavfe 
Thy  song,   nor   ever  can   those   trees   be   bare ; 
Bold    lover,    never,    never    canst    thou    kiss, 
Though    winning    near    the    goal — yet    do    not    grieve} 
She  cannot  fade " 

She  cannot  fade.  Already  it  seemed  that  the  sharp  edges 
of  his  memories  were  lost  to  him.  How  was  it  that  her 
face  lit  up?  How  did  her  voice  shudder  and  slur  from 

sudden  piping  notes  into  tenderness?  How ?  Things 

grew  vague — he  had  meant  to  treasure  them  so  poignantly. 
Like  a  dream  from  which,  against  his  will,  he  was  waking, 
Illusion  gathered  in  her  skirts  from  his  clutching  hands, 
growing  faint  against  the  background  of  reality. 

The  waking  had  commenced  before  he  left  Henley.  On 
his  return  to  The  Skylark  he  had  found  a  note  waiting  him. 
It  had  been  forwarded  from  Topbury.  His  name  and  ad 
dress  were  printed,  evidently  to  disguise  the  hand  of  the 
sender.  Inside,  on  a  half  sheet  of  note-paper,  was  scrawled  : 

"For  God's  sake  meet  me.  Seven  o'clock  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Crescent.  I'm  lonely." 

It  was  signed  with  the  initials,  O.  W. 

So  he  was  out  of  jail !  Looking  at  the  date  of  the  post 
mark,  Peter  had  discovered  that  for  two  nights  the  man 
who  was  lonely  had  waited.  In  the  four  and  a  half  years 
since  he  had  vanished  from  the  living  world  his  name  had 
been  scarcely  mentioned.  At  Topbury  the  effort  had  been 
made  to  blot  out  disgrace  by  forgetting.  Jehane,  when  she 


302  THE    RAFT 

had  left  Sandport,  had  purposely  dropped  her  old  acquain 
tance  and  had  passed  among  recent  friends  as  a  widow. 
The  fiction  had  been  so  earnestly  cultivated  that  it  had 
seemed  almost  true  that  Ocky  Waffles  was  dead — true  even 
to  Peter  and  Glory.  Now,  like  the  remembered  tragedy 
about  a  death-bed,  when  the  hands  had  been  long  since 
folded,  flowers  placed  upon  the  breast  and  the  coffin  car 
ried  out,  the  dead  man  had  come  back  to  die  afresh.  To 
say  that  Peter  resented  his  return  would  be  an  exaggera 
tion.  But  he  shrank  from  the  intrusion  of  the  sordid  past 
upon  the  golden  poetry  of  the  present — shrank  from  it  as 
he  would  shrink  from  meeting  someone  hideously  marred 
in  a  gay  spring  woodland. 

The  cab  wheels  caught  in  the  tram-lines  and  jerked  him 
into  consciousness  of  his  whereabouts.  They  had  turned 
into  the  High  Street.  In  three  minutes  they  would  be  at 

Topbury  Cock,  and  then .  Already  in  the  distance  he 

could  see  where  the  plane-trees  in  the  Fields  commenced. 
What  should  he  do  if  his  uncle  were  standing  there?  His 
father's  house?  No.  He  raised  the  trap  in  the  roof. 
"When  you  come  to  the  bottom  of  the  Crescent  walk  your 
horse.  Understand  ?" 

Shops  were  closing.  Girls  and  men  were  pouring  out 
on  to  the  pavement,  meeting  with  a  quick  flash  of  eyes  and 
strolling  away  together.  Some  of  them  boarded  trams, 
going  up  to  Highgate  to  breathe  the  evening  air.  The  sun 
was  setting. 

The  horse  slowed  down.  At  the  corner  a  crowd  was 
gathered  about  a  band.  People  were  singing.  Peter  caught 
the  words : 

"If  you  won't  come  to  Heaven 
Then  you'll  have  to  go  to  Hell ; 
For  the  Devil  he  is  waiting, 
But  with  Jesus  all  is  well. 
Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet, 
He  will  wash   them  in  His  blood; 
So  hurry  up  to  Jesus 
And  He'll  make  you  good. 
Hallelujah!" 


IF   YOU   WON'T   COME   TO    HEAVEN      303 

Grace  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  circle  banging 
on  her  drum,  her  mouth  wide  open  in  her  big  poke-bonnet. 
On  the  cab-stand,  lolling  on  his  box,  pretending  to  be  half 
asleep,  sat  Mr.  Grace.  His  daughter's  eyes  were  on  him. 

Peter  scanned  the  crowd.  It  was  composed  of  idlers,  on 
lookers  and  scoffers,  with  a  sprinkling  of  converts.  The 
converts  were  noticeable  by  their  pale,  indignant  enthusi 
asm. 

At  first  he  saw  no  one  who  attracted  his  attention,  and 

then .  A  man  with  dejected  shoulders  was  crouching  in 

the  gateway  of  a  house.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  be  un 
observed.  His  clothes  were  shabby — out  of  fashion.  His 
linen  was  soiled.  It  was  the  dirty  white  spats  above  his 
unshone  boots  that  made  Peter  notice.  He  told  the  cabby 
to  wait  for  him. 

He  walked  by  the  man  once.  In  passing  he  noted  the 
total  slovenliness  of  his  appearance,  the  unkempt  hands,  the 
defeated  air  and  the  hat  jammed  down  to  hide  the  close- 
cropped  hair.  He  turned  back  and  was  repassing.  Like  a 
whipped  dog  the  man  raised  his  eyes ;  then  instantly  low 
ered  them.  Peter  held  out  his  hand ;  his  throat  was  too 
choked  to  say  anything.  The  man  seemed  about  to  take 
it;  then  slunk  back. 

"You  don't  want  to  know  me." 

"I  do.  If  I  hadn't,  I  shouldn't  have  come.  I'm 

I'm  awfully  sorry." 

"If  you  won't  come  to  Heaven,  then  you'll  have  to  go  to 
hell,"  sang  Grace  and  her  followers ;  it  sounded  as  though 
they  were  passing  sentence. 

To  the  driver's  amazement,  Peter  helped  him  into  the 
hansom.  "Trot  us  round  for  an  hour  or  two,"  he  said. 

"If  you  won't  come  to  Heaven,  then  you'll  have  to  go  to 
hell."  The  singing  hurled  itself  after  them — seemed  to  be 
running  and  to  grow  out  of  breath  as  they  drew  into  the 
distance. 

They  set  off  through  Holloway.  They  reached  the  foot 
of  Highgate  Hill  and  had  not  spoken.  Ahead  blazed  the 
dome  of  St.  Joseph's,  catching  the  redness  of  the  sinking 


304  THE    RAFT 

sun.  The  cabby  asked  for  further  instructions.  "Go  up  the 
hill  and  out  to  Hampstead." 

Waterlow  Park  brought  a  breath  of  country ;  children 
were  laughing  and  playing  there.  The  sternness  of  the 
city,  like  the  brutality  of  just  judgments,  was  dropping 
away  behind  them.  Streets  took  on  a  village  aspect.  Over 
to  the  left,  within  sound  of  the  living  children,  lay  the  stone- 
garden  where  little  Philip  rested.  The  horse  clambered 
slowly  to  the  top  of  the  ascent. 

Peter  touched  the  knee  of  the  man  beside  him.  "I'm 
glad  you  sent  for  me.  It's — it's  a  long  time  since  we  met. 
I  mean — what  I  mean  to  say  is,  you  might  have  forgotten 
me.  I'm  glad  you  didn't." 

"A  long  time  since  we  met !"  The  dull  eyes  stared  at  him 
as  lifelessly  as  through  a  pair  of  smoked  glasses.  "I've 
been  buried.  They'd  better  have  dug  a  hole  for  me." 

The  man  paused  and  looked  from  side  to  side  stealthily. 
He  had  the  hoarse  prison  voice  which  whispered  and 
cracked.  It  was  painful  to  see  how  he  cringed  and  shrank. 
He  pulled  himself  together  and  laughed  huskily.  "They 
didn't  let  us  speak  in  there."  He  spoke  reflectively,  as  if  to 
himself.  "Silent  for  more  than  four  years!  Strange  to 
be  back !" 

They  were  bowling  down  a  smooth  road.  To  the  right  were 
cricket-fields  and  boys  at  the  nets.  Across  the  blue  stillness 
of  evening  came  the  sharp  "click"  of  balls  against  bats. 

"So  this  is  Uncle  Waffles!  So  this  is  Uncle  Waffles!" 
Peter  kept  saying  to  himself.  His  thoughts  searched  back, 
trying  to  trace  a  resemblance  between  the  irrepressible,  jok 
ing  eompanion  of  his  childhood  and  this  mutilated  scrap  of 
humanity.  The  low-pitched  voice  crawled  on  like  the  sound 
of  dragging  footsteps.  "I  couldn't  have  done  anything 
bad  enough  to  deserve  that.  If  I'd  only  known  that  some 
one  outside  was  caring.  There  were  no  letters,  no — no 
anything.  Just  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  to  work,  and 
then  to  go  back  to  bed.  Sundays  were  the  worst — there 
wasn't  any  work. — And  then  they  opened  the  gates  and 
shoved  me  out.  I  couldn't  think  of  anyone  but  you,  Peter." 


IF   YOU    WON'T   COME   TO    HEAVEN      305 

Peter  made  an  attempt  to  cheer  him.  "You  could  have 
thought  of  someone  else." 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  yes,  but  you  could.    There  was  Glory." 

"Glory!"  He  showed  no  animation.  "She's  eighteen, 
isn't  she?  No,  Glory  wouldn't  care.  But  Jehane,  how  is 
she?" 

Peter  had  feared  that  question.     "She's  well." 

The  man  looked  away.  "She  won't  want  to  see  me.  She 
never  loved  me.  D'you  think  she'd  let  me  see  her,  Peter?" 

"I'm  afraid — afraid  she  wouldn't.  She's  thinking  of 
Eustace,  and  Moggs  and  Riska.  But  Glory — I'm  sure 
Glory " 

"Ah,  Glory !  She's  forgotten  me.  And  Jehane,  she  never 
thought  of  me ;  it  was  always  of  the  children." 

His  voice  fell  slack  with  utter  hopelessness.  Peter  re 
membered  Cherry's  words,  "It's  always  one  who  allows  and 
one  who  loves."  Jehane  hadn't  even  allowed;  the  ruin  at 
his  side  was  her  handiwork. 

The  hansom  halted.  Hampstead  Heath  was  all  about 
them,  falling  away  in  gorse  and  bracken  and  yellow  earth. 
A  little  farther  on  was  the  Flagstaff  Pond.  Toy  yachts 
were  scudding  across  it;  excited  boys  ran  round  its  edges 
to  retrim  their  sails  and  send  their  craft  on  fresh  adven 
tures.  A  dog  jumped  into  the  water,  barking;  they  could 
see  his  head  bobbing  as  he  swam.  To  their  left,  between 
the  trees  of  the  Vale  of  Heath,  London  lay  like  a  sunken 
rock  with  the  surf  of  smoke  breaking  over  it. 

The  cabby  spoke,  "Look  'ere,  young  gentleman,  my  'orse 
is  tired.  HT've  got  to  be  gettin'  back.  'Ow  abart  a  rest  at 
The  Spaniards?" 

They  returned  over  the  way  they  had  come.  The  tall 
firs  of  the  Seven  Sisters  stood  up  black  and  weather-beaten 
before  them.  In  the  yard  of  The  Spaniards  they  stepped 
out.  The  cabby  climbed  down  and  began  to  unharness.  Be 
hind  his  hand  he  said  to  Peter,  "Rum  old  party  you've  got 
there,  mister."  And  then,  glancing  up  at  the  labels  on  the 
bag,  "Been  to  'Enley,  'av'n't  yer?  'Ad  luck?" 


306  THE    RAFT 

At  the  bar  Peter  ordered  supper  in  a  private  room.  He 
noticed  that,  when  they  had  sat  down,  his  uncle  still  kept 
his  hat  on.  When  he  reminded  him  of  it  his  uncle  glanced 
at  the  door  furtively  and  whispered,  "Daren't  take  it  off. 
They  may  guess." 

He  fell  upon  his  food  ravenously.  In  his  eating,  as  in 
his  way  of  talking,  there  was  something  inhuman,  something 
— yes,  lonely  was  the  word.  Slowly  it  was  coming  home  to 
Peter  that  through  all  these  years,  while  he  had  been 
housed,  and  safeguarded,  and  attended  with  affection,  this 
man  had  been  used  like  an  animal.  He  was  repelled  and 
filled  with  compassion.  He  wanted  to  escape ;  he  was  un 
manned. 

The  dusk  was  falling.  "I'll  be  back  in  a  moment.  Order 
what  you  like,"  he  said. 

In  the  fragile  darkness  he  clenched  his  hands.  Last 
night  he  had  been  so  happy !  How  had  he  dared  to  be 
happy?  He  recalled  the  jolly  buffoonery  of  Henley — the 
songs  they  had  sung,  the  swaying  of  lanterns,  the  swan-like 
gliding  of  punts,  the  muffled  laughter,  the  hint  of  stolen 
kisses.  And  all  the  while  this  man  had  been  lonely;  and 
his  chief  fault  had  been  the  fault  of  others — that  he  had  not 
been  allowed  to  love. 

Peter  found  himself  walking  across  the  Heath,  following 
no  path.  Now  and  then  the  rough  ground  tripped  him  and 
he  stumbled.  He  couldn't  bear  the  reproach  of  that — that 
thing  that  had  once  been  a  man,  that  had  no  courage  left  to 
accuse  anybody.  Peter  felt  as  though  he  himself  were  re 
sponsible,  as  though  he  had  done  it.  He  lifted  his  eyes  to 
the  stars.  Indifferent  and  placid,  stretched  out  on  the 
blue-black  couch  of  heaven,  they  stared  back  at  him  and 
told  him  cantingly: 

"God's   in  His  Heaven, 
All's    right    with    the    world." 

He  shook  his  fist  at  them.  That  was  the  trouble.  God 
was  too  much  in  His  Heaven.  He  felt  that  he  could  never 
again  be  happy. 


IF   YOU    WON'T    COME   TO    HEAVEN      307 

The  image  of  Cherry  grew  up — Cherry  with  her  red 
mouth.  God  had  made  her,  as  well.  He  unclenched  his 
hands  and  stood  puzzled.  God  had  made  her,  as  well ! 
The  golden  panes  of  the  inn  shone  and  winked  at  him;  he 
retraced  his  steps. 

The  man  still  wore  his  hat,  but .  Alcohol  had  changed 

him  from  a  thing  limp  and  hopeless  into  Ocky  Waffles.  As 
Peter  entered  he  staggered  to  his  feet  with  both  hands  held 
out. 

"Why,  if  it  isn't  the  ha'penny  marvel.  God  bless  me, 
how  he's  grown.  Quite  a  man,  Peter !  Quite  a  man  !"  He 
put  his  lips  against  Peter's  ear.  "Mustn't  tell  anybody. 
They  wouldn't  understand.  Have  to  keep  it  on."  He 
pointed  to  his  hat.  "Been  away  for  a  rest  cure — you  and 
I  know  where.  Had  brain  fever.  Had  to  cut  my  hair.  It 
isn't  pretty."  Then,  in  a  lower  voice,  "Mustn't  tell  any 
body.  You  won't  split  on  me  ?" 

For  the  first  time  Peter  was  delighted  to  find  his  uncle 
drunk.  He  assured  him  that  he  wouldn't  split  on  him. 

"Shake  hands,  old  son ;  it's  a  compack.  Cur'ous !  Here's 
all  this  great  world  and  only  I  and  you  know  about  it. 
Makes  me  laugh.  Our  little  joke,  isn't  it?" 

Peter  took  the  whisky  bottle  from  him.  "You  don't 
want  any  more  of  that." 

The  trembling  hand  groped  after  it;  the  weak  mouth 
quivered.  "Just  to  forget.  Just  to  make  me  forget.  Don't 
be  hard  on  poor  old  Ocky  Waffles.  Everyone's  been  hard 
on  Ocky  Waffles." 

For  a  moment  Peter  wavered ;  then  poured  an  inch  more 
of  liquid  courage  into  the  empty  glass.  "That's  the  last  for 
to-night;  we've  got  to  plan  for  your  future." 

"My  future !"  Ocky  Waffles  twisted  his  unwaxed  mus 
taches  and  spread  his  arms  across  the  table.  "My  future! 
Oh,  yes.  I've  got  a  great  future." 

Peter  tapped  him  on  the  hand.  "Not  a  great  future ;  but 
a  future.  There  are  two  people  who  care  for  you.  That's 
something." 


308  THE    RAFT 

"Two  people?  There's  you,  but  don't  count  me  in  on  it. 
This  little  boy  isn't  very  fond  of  himself." 

"There's  me  and  there's  Glory." 

"Glory !"  Ocky  Waffles  smiled  grimly.  Then  he  seemed 
ashamed  of  himself  and  repeated  in  an  incredulous  whisper, 
"Glory !" 

"She  cares  more  than  I  do,"  Peter  said.  "She  and  I  and 
you,  all  working  together — do  you  understand? — she  and  I 
and  you  are  going  to  make  you  well.  We're  going  to  show 
everybody  that  you're  a  strong,  good  man ;  and  we're  going 
to  work  in  secret  until  we  can  prove  it." 

"A  strong,  good  man!"  The  subject  of  this  wonderful 
experiment  looked  down  at  himself  contemptuously.  "A 
strong,  good  man,  I  think  you  said.  Likely,  isn't  it?  I've 
started  by  getting  drunk." 

With  sudden  loathing  and  concentrated  will  power  he 
swept  the  glass  of  whisky  from  him.  It  fell  to  the  floor 
with  a  crash.  He  had  become  sober  and  rose  to  his  feet 
solemnly.  "Not  a  strong,  good  man.  I  could  have  been 
once.  I'm  a  jail-bird.  I've  got  my  memories.  My  mem 
ories  ! — Good  God,  I  wouldn't  tell  you !  You're  young.  I 
can  only  try  to  be  decent  now,  if  that's  enough.  And — and 
I'd  like  to  try,  Peter,  if  you'll  help  me." 

As  they  drove  back  to  Topbury  the  fumes  of  the  drink 
overcame  him.  He  fell  asleep  with  his  head  rolling  against 
Peter's  shoulder.  Even  in  his  sleep  he  seemed  to  remem 
ber  his  shame,  and  how  he  must  keep  it  hidden  from  the 
world.  His  hand  kept  traveling  to  his  hat,  when  a  jerk  of 
the  cab  threatened  to  remove  it. 

What  to  do  with  him!  As  the  night  fled  by  him  Peter 
planned.  No  one  but  Peter  would  have  thought  out  a  plan 
so  humanely  idiotic.  The  silver  moonlight  fell  between 
clumped  trees  and  flooded  all  the  meadows.  Houses  be 
came  more  frequent.  Above  the  trotting  of  the  horse  the 
grumble  of  traffic  was  heard.  They  were  descending  High- 
gate  Hill ;  Peter  put  his  arm  about  his  companion  to  pre 
vent  his  slipping  forward.  He  stirred  and  muttered,  "Poor 


IF   YOU   WON'T   COME   TO    HEAVEN      309 

old  Ocky !  Too  bad  !  Too  bad,  going  and  getting  drunk ! 
Just  out  of  prison  and  all  that." 

Peter  bit  his  lips  and  drew  his  brows  together.  Life — 
how  strange  it  was !  How  slender,  and  fierce,  and  panther- 
like  and  cruel !  And  yet  how  beautiful  at  times  and  splen 
did !  Who  could  foresee  anything?  Last  night  he  and  the 
same  moon  had  gazed  on  romance — to-night  on  disillusion. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  lay  London,  like  an  immense 
quarry,  tunneled,  lamplit,  treacherous,  industrious,  carved 
out  of  the  precipice  of  darkness.  It  seemed  a  clay  model 
ing  of  a  more  huge  world,  placed  there  for  his  inspection. 
Down  there  this  man  at  his  side  had  been  crushed ;  they 
had  cast  him  out.  They  had  told  him,  "If  you  won't  come 

to  Heaven,  then  you'll  have  to  go  to "  Well,  he'd  been 

to  hell,  and  now  they'd  got  to  take  him  back.  In  his  heart 
Peter  dared  them  to  refuse  him. 

He  spoke  to  the  cabby  and  gave  him  an  address.  The 
man  complained  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  A  reward 
persuaded  him. 

They  were  jingling  through  side- streets  now.  They  came 
out  on  to  a  broad  road,  with  trees  on  either  side  and  houses 
standing  in  gardens,  with  steps  going  up  to  them.  The 
horse  halted  and  the  cabman  blew  his  nose  loudly.  "Nice 
little  jaunt  you've  'ad." 

The  house  was  all  in  darkness.  Peter  rang  the  bell.  On 
the  second  story  a  blind  was  raised ;  someone  saw  the  lamps 
of  the  hansom.  Feet  descended  the  stairs.  The  door 
opened  timidly.  Miss  Florence  stood  there,  her  hair  in 
curl-papers,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand.  She  looked  ex 
traordinarily  angular  and  elderly.  Behind  her,  peering  over 
the  banisters,  were  Miss  Effie,  Miss  Leah  and  Miss  Madge, 
with  petticoats  thrown  over  their  shoulders.  Peter  entered 
the  old-fashioned  hall  and  explained  his  errand.  "You 
were  going  to  do  it  once ;  he  needs  it  more  than  ever  now." 

"Bring  him  in,"  Miss  Florence  said. 

In  an  odd  old-maidish  room  he  undressed  his  uncle  and 
slipped  him  into  one  of  the  late  Mr.  Jacobite's  night-shirts. 


3io  THE    RAFT 

The  situation  was  not  without  its  humor.  Before  he  left 
he  promised  to  be  round  early. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  he  arrived  .home  at  Topbury 
Terrace.  Only  his  father  was  up.  He  opened  the  door  to 
him.  "You're  late,  Peter.  We  thought  something  had 
happened." 

Peter  waited  until  the  door  had  closed  behind  him.  "It 
has.  I  met  Uncle  Waffles.  You're  tired ;  don't  let's  talk 
about  it  now.  He's  all  right  for  a  little  while,  anyhow." 

His  father  drew  a  long  breath.  Peter  knew  what  he  was 
thinking :  "So  the  dead  man  has  come  back  to  die  afresh !" 
They  put  out  the  lights  in  silence  and  climbed  the  stairs.  In 
the  darkness  his  father  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "You 
were  always  fond  of  Ocky;  so  was  I  once.  Poor  fellow! 
I  tried  to  be  just." 

"You  were  just,"  said  Peter;  "you  had  to  be  just.  But 
it  isn't  justice  that  he's  needing  now ;  it's — it's  kindness." 

His  father's  voice  became  grave — a  little  stern,  perhaps. 
"For  years  he  had  the  kindness ;  he  was  dragging  us  all 

down.  He  lied  to  me  so  often.  Well .  Humph ! 

Can't  be  helped.  Do  what  you  can.  Good  night,  son." 

As  Peter  entered  his  bedroom  something  fluttered.  He 
struck  a  match.  It  was  a  sheet  of  paper,  written  on  in  a 
round,  girlish  hand  and  pinned  against  the  door-panel.  It 
read,  "Welcome  home,  Peterkins.  All  the  time  I've  been 
thinking  of  you.  I've  missed  you  most  azvfully.  I  wanted 
to  sit  up,  but  they  wouldn't  let  me.  With  love  and  ten 
thousand  kisses,  Kay." 

His  heart  reproached  him.  Little  Kitten  Kay!  In  the 
last  week  he  hadn't  thought  much  of  her,  and  once — once 
she  had  been  his  entire  world.  He  had  promised  her  once 
that  he  was  never  going  to  marry.  And  now  there  was 
Cherry.  It  was  Cherry  he  thought  of  as  his  eyes  were  clos 
ing — Cherry  and  her  saying  that  there  are  those  who  allow 
and  those  who  love. 


Once  she  had  been  his  entire  world. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 
THE  WORLD  AND  OCKY 

WHENEVER  Peter  thought  of  the  Misses  Jacobite,  the 
picture  that  formed  was  of  four  lean-breasted  women,  who 
spoke  in  whispers  and  sat  forever  in  a  room  with  the  blinds 
down.  They  seemed  to  have  no  passions,  no  desires,  no 
grip  on  reality,  no  sense  of  life's  supreme  earnestness.  They 
were  waiting,  always  waiting  for  something  to  return — 
something  which  had  once  been  theirs :  youth,  the  hope  of 
motherhood,  love,  the  admiration  of  men.  The  day  of 
their  opportunity  had  gone  by  them ;  they  could  not  forget. 
It  was  odd  to  remember  that  these  gentlewomen,  prema 
turely  aged,  had  once  been  high-stepping  and  courted — the 
belles  of  Topbury.  One  of  them  sang,  day  in,  day  out,  of 
the  rest  to  be  found  on  the  other  side  of  Jordan ;  it  was  all 
that  she  had  to  hope  for  now.  Directly  the  front  door 
opened  you  could  hear  her.  The  sound  of  her  singing  sent 
shivers  down  your  back.  It  made  you  think  of  a  mourner, 
sitting  beside  the  dead ;  only  the  dead  was  not  in  the  house. 
It  had  never  come  to  birth.  It  was  something  once  ex 
pected,  that  no  one  dared  speak  about. 

When  Peter  called  next  morning  he  was  aware  of  a 
changed  atmosphere.  The  sense  of  folded  hands  had  van 
ished.  The  singing  was  no  longer  heard ;  instead,  there 
came  to  his  ears  a  number  of  busy,  orderly  sounds — doors 
softly  opening  and  shutting,  feet  making  discreet  haste  upon 
the  stairs,  the  clink  of  dishes  in  the  basement  and  the 
sizzling  of  cooking. 

As  he  had  passed  through  the  hall,  with  its  varnished 
wall-paper,  to  the  drawing-room  in  which  he  waited,  the 
portrait  of  old  Mr.  Jacobite  had  gazed  fiercely  down.  Quite 


3i2  THE   RAFT 

evidently  the  old  gentleman  disapproved  of  the  use  being 
made  of  his  night-shirt. 

Peter  didn't  seat  himself;  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  do  so  without  causing  havoc.  Every  chair  had  its  anti 
macassar,  spread  at  its  correct  old-maidish  angle.  He 
stood  by  the  window,  looking  out  into  the  cool  little  garden 
— a  green,  shy  sanctuary  for  birds,  across  which  the  July 
sunlight  fell.  Overhead  was  the  room  in  which  Uncle 
Waffles  had  slept — he  hoped  he  had  behaved  himself.  The 
chandelier  shook;  several  people  were  very  industrious  up 
there.  And  Peter  wondered.  Old  Mr.  Jacobite — had  he 
always  disapproved  of  men  where  his  daughters  were  con 
cerned?  Had  he  kept  them  from  marriage?  Had  the  tall 
and  reserved  Miss  Florence  ever  been  kissed  by  a  man  ?  In 
the  light  of  his  own  romantic  experience  he  pitied  all  people 
who  hadn't  been  kissed  and  married.  Life  was  wasted  if 
that  hadn't  happened  ;  it  was  meant  for  that. 

The  handle  turned.  It  was  Miss  Effie,  the  little  and  talk 
ative  Miss  Jacobite,  who  entered.  She  was  smiling  and 
lifted  to  Peter  a  face  all  a-flutter,  thanking  him  with  her 
eyes,  as  though  he  had  given  her  a  present. 

"How  is  he  ?"  Peter  asked.  "I  oughtn't  to  have  brought 
him  here  at  all — let  alone  at  such  an  hour.  Only  you  see — 
you  see  there  was  nowhere  else  to  bring  him." 

She  seated  herself  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  patting  out  her 
dress.  "He's  tired."  She  spoke  with  an  air  of  concern. 
"He  wasn't  very  well.  We  made  him  stay  in  bed.  We're 
going  to  keep  him  there ;  he  needs  feeding." 

She  was  flustered.  Her  hands  kept  clasping  and  unclasp 
ing.  She  seemed  afraid  of  being  accused  of  immodesty. 
She  raised  her  eyes  shyly.  "It's  so  nice  to  have  a  man  in 

the  house.  Not  since  poor  dear  father .  I  wonder 

what  he'd  have  said." 

Peter  didn't  wonder.  He  thought  it  was  high  time  that 
he  made  matters  clearer.  "Of  course,  I'm  not  going  to 
leave  him  on  your  hands.  I  only  brought  him  for  a  night 
because " 

She  interrupted  anxiously.    "Oh,  please,  until  he's  better. 


THE    WORLD   AND    OCKY  313 

He's  so  run  down.  They  made  him  work  so  hard  in — in 
there." 

So  he  had  brought  his  derelict  uncle  to  the  one  spot  on 
earth  where  he  was  regarded  as  a  treasure!  He  was  so 
amazed  at  Miss  Effie's  attitude  that  he  doubted  whether 
she  was  in  full  possession  of  the  facts. 

"But— but,"  he  faltered,  "didn't  Miss  Florence  tell  you 
where  he's  come  from — where  it  was  that  he  had  to  work?" 

She  answered  in  a  low  voice.  "We've  all  done  wrong." 
It  seemed  she  could  get  no  further.  She  sank  her  head, 
gazing  straight  before  her,  tracing  out  the  great  red  roses 
in  the  carpet.  Peter  thought  of  her  sister,  Leah,  the  shad 
ow-woman  ;  he  knew  what  she  meant.  She  raised  her  eyes 
to  his  with  an  effort.  "We've  all  done  wrong;  I  think  to 
have  done  wrong  makes  one  more  gentle.  It  makes  one 
willing — not  to  remember." 

Miss  Florence  opened  the  door  and  looked  in  on  them. 
"He's  ready  to  see  you  now."  She  hated  scenes.  Because 
she  saw  that  one  was  in  preparation,  she  made  her  voice  and 
manner  perfunctory.  "You'd  better  go  alone.  You'd  better 
go  on  tiptoe.  I  wouldn't  stop  too  long ;  he's  got  a  bad  head." 

Peter  couldn't  help  smiling  as  he  climbed  the  stairs,  and 
yet  it  was  a  tender  sort  of  smiling.  Didn't  these  innocent 
ladies  know  that  too  much  whisky  invariably  left  a  bad 
head  ?  Or,  with  their  divine  faculty  for  forgetting,  were 
they  willing  to  forget  the  whisky  and  only  to  remember  to 
cure  the  bad  head? 

It  was  a  white  room — a  woman's  room  most  emphatically. 
The  pictures  on  the  walls  were  triumphs  of  sentimentality. 
Gallants  were  kissing  their  ladies'  hands  and  clutching  them 
to  their  breasts  in  an  agony  of  parting,  or  looking  meltingly 
at  a  flower  which  they  had  left.  The  seats  of  the  chairs 
wore  linen  covers  to  prevent  their  upholstery  from  getting 
shabby.  The  window  was  wide ;  on  the  sill  crumbs  had 
been  scattered.  Sparrows  chattered  and,  grown  bold  from 
habit,  flew  in  on  to  the  carpet  and  preened  their  feathers. 

On  the  bed,  the  sheets  drawn  close  up  under  his  chin,  lay 
Uncle  Waffles.  He  had  the  look  that  invalids  sometimes 


3H  THE    RAFT 

have,  of  being  made  to  appear  more  ill  by  too  much  at 
tention.  He  had  not  shaved — his  cheeks  were  grizzled ;  that 
help  to  make  him  look  worse.  The  atmosphere  of  a  sick 
room  was  completed  by  a  table  placed  beside  the  counter 
pane,  on  which  lay  an  open  Bible  and  some  freshly  plucked 
wall-flowers.  Peter  had  never  seen  his  uncle  in  bed — for 
the  moment  he  was  embarrassed.  He  drew  up  a  chair. 
"How  are  you?  Getting  rested?" 

Uncle  Waffles  hitched  himself  higher  on  the  pillow, 
reached  out  and  took  Peter's  hand.  A  glint  of  the  old  love 
of  fun-making  crept  into  his  eyes.  "I've  not  been  treated 
like  this  since  my  mother — not  since  I  was  married.  They're 
pretending-  I'm  ill  because  they  want  to  nurse  me.  Carried 
off  my  trousers,  they  did,  to  prevent  me  from  getting 
dressed.  What's  the  matter  with  them?  Don't  they  know 
who  I  am?" 

"They  know." 

"Then  why  are  they  doing  it?" 

"Because  they've  suffered  themselves." 

Ocky  tightened  his  grip  on  Peter's  hand.  "One  of  them 
been  to — to  where  I've  been,  you  mean?  Which  one?" 

Peter  shook  his  head.  "They've  all  been  to  prison  in  a 
sense — not  the  kind  you  speak  of.  They  had  a  big  tragedy, 

when  everything  looked  happy.  Since  then .  Well, 

since  then  people  have  pitied  and  cut  them.  They've  been 
left.  They're  glad  you've  come,  partly  because  life's  been 

cruel  to  you,  and  partly .  Look  here,  I  don't  want  you 

to  laugh ! — partly  because  you're  a  man." 

Ocky  pulled  the  late  Mr.  Jacobite's  night-shirt  tighter 
across  his  shoulders.  It  was  much  too  large  for  him — as 
voluminous  as  a  surplice.  "Not  much  of  a  man,"  he  mut 
tered  ;  "not  much  of  a  man.  Arrived  here — you  know  how. 
Before  that  had  been  hanging  about  street  corners,  watched 
by  the  police  and  jostled  into  the  gutter.  My  own  wife 

won't  look  at  me ;  and  yet  you  tell  me  these  strangers ." 

His  voice  shook.  "I  don't  understand — can't  see  why ." 

Peter  spoke  after  an  interval.     "You — you  haven't  often 


THE    WORLD    AND    OCKY  315 

been  surprised  by  too  much  kindness,  have  you?  Comes 
almost  like  a  blow  at  first?" 

"Almost.  It  kind  of  hurts.  But  it's  the  right  kind  of 
hurting.  It  makes  me  want  to  be  good.  Never  thought  I'd 
want  to  be  that." 

"What  did  you  think?" 

For  a  moment  a  fierce  look  came  into  his  eyes.  "What 
does  an  animal  think  of  when  it's  trapped?  It  thinks  of 
all  the  ways  in  which  "it  can  get  back  at  the  people  who 

put  it  there.  But  now ."  He  picked  up  the  wall-flowers 

and  smelt  them.  "She  brought  them  this  morning — the 
littlest  one,  with  the  gray  hair  and  tiny  hands.  They  were 
all  wet  with  dew  when  she  brought  them.  You  need  to  go 
to  prison,  Peter,  to  know  what  flowers  can  mean  to  a  chap." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Miss  Madge  entered,  bring 
ing  some  beef-tea.  When  she  had  gone  Ocky  said,  "They 
take  it  in  turns." 

Peter  remembered  how,  going  always  into  separate  rooms 
with  them,  they'd  taken  turns  in  owning  himself  and  Kay 
when  they  were  children.  How  rarely  life  had  allowed 
them  to  love  anything! 

Uncle  Waffles'  thoughts  seemed  to  have  been  following 
the  same  track.  He  paused,  with  the  cup  half-way  to  his 
mouth.  "Those  women  ought  to  have  married. — Been  in 
prison  most  of  their  lives,  you  said?  But  I  don't  know; 
marriage  can  be  a  worse  hell."  He  turned  to  Peter.  "D'you 
remember  at  Sandport  how  she'd  never  let  me  kiss  her  ?  It 
was  like  that  from  the  first.  She  kept  me  hungry.  I  stole 
to  make  her  love  me.  She  was  always  talking  about  her 
first  husband  and  making  me  jealous.  And  yet ." 

He  stopped  and  gazed  vacantly  across  the  room  to  where 
sparrows  fluttered  on  the  sill  and  sunlight  fell.  Peter  sup 
posed  that  he  had  forgotten  what  he  was  going  to  have 
said.  Suddenly  his  face  became  all  purpose  and  pleading. 
He  flung  back  the  bedclothes  and  leant  out,  gripping  Peter's 
shoulders  till  they  hurt.  "I'd  steal  again  to-morrow  to  get 
one  day  of  her  bought  affection.  My  God,  how  I've  longed 


3i6  THE    RAFT 

for  her!  Make  her  come  to  me.  You  must,  Peter.  You 
shall.  Don't  tell  her  who  I  am.  Oh,  don't  refuse  me." 

The  sharp  agony  and  desperate  determination  of  a  man 
so  drifting  and  careless  took  Peter  aback.  He  recalled 
those  days  when  he  had  hidden  him  in  the  stable— it  had 
been  the  same  then.  He  had  always  been  urging  that  Je- 
hane  should  be  persuaded  to  walk  in  the  garden  that  he 
might  catch  a  glimpse  of  her.  The  one  strong  loyalty  of 
his  weak  existence  had  been  the  love  of  this  woman. 

"Get  her  to  come  to  you!"  Peter  said.  "But  how?  She 
wouldn't.  She ." 

Ocky  burried  his  face  in  the  pillow.  How  thin  he  was 

and  listless !  How  spent !  How .  What  was  the 

word  ?  How  smashed !  It  was  as  though  in  the  human 
quarry  some  chance  stone  of  calamity  had  fallen  on  him, 
making  him  a  moral  cripple.  He  was  what  he  was  through 
the  sort  of  accident  that  might  happen  to  any  man — to  the 
Faun  Man,  if  Eve  refused  to  love  him ;  even  to  Peter  him 
self. 

The  boy  pulled  the  clothes  back  over  the  man.  "Some 
how — I  don't  know  how — somehow  I'll  do  it.  I  promise." 

After  that,  whenever  Peter  entered  the  white  room,  he 
saw  how  his  uncle  watched  for  someone  to  follow. 

The  Misses  Jacobite  had  found  a  doctor  who  supported 
their  opinion  that  their  guest  must  be  kept  in  bed.  The 
prison  fare  and  long  confinement  had  broken  down  his  con 
stitution.  The  doctor  didn't  know  what  had  done  it;  he 
advised  food  and  rest. 

From  time  to  time  Peter  brought  visitors  to  the  room 
overlooking  the  garden.  His  father  came  and  was  shocked 
by  the  wasted  look  of  the  man  who,  in  earlier  years,  had 
been  his  friend.  It  was  of  those  earlier  years  that  they 
chose  to  speak,  by  an  instinctive  courtesy;  they,  at  least, 
had  been  happy  territory.  They  recalled  together  their 
schoolday  pranks — the  canings  they  had  earned,  the  football 
matches  they  had  lost  or  won,  the  holidays  when  they  had 
broken  boundaries,  going  on  some  secret  adventure.  But, 
when  Barrington  rose  to  go,  Ocky  said,  "Don't  come  again, 


THE   WORLD   AND    OCKY  317 

Billy.  You  used  to  hate  to  hear  me  call  you  Billy;  you'll 
dislike  it  just  as  much  when  I'm  better.  We've  both  been 
forgetting  what  I  am,  and  what  I've  done.  If  you  come 
again  we  may  remember.  For  years  I've  worried  you ;  well, 
that's  ended.  But — you're  a  man  of  the  world,  and  you 
understand.  I'm  a  jail-bird — and  I  don't  want  to  spoil 
the  memory  of  this  hour.  Good-bye,  old  man." 

It  turned  out  that  Mr.  Grace  hadn't  slept  on  his  box  so 
soundly  that  evening  of  Peter's  return — at  least,  not  so 
soundly  as  to  keep  his  eyes  shut. 

"All  swank  on  my  part,  Mr.  Peter,"  he  said ;  "she's  been 
h'at  me  for  years,  my  darter  Grice  'as,  and  I  don't  mean 
to  get  conwerted.  HTm  not  a-goin'  ter  come  ter  'eaven, 
so  long  as  'er  voice  is  the  only  voice  as  calls  me.  'Eaven  'ud 
be  'ell,  livin'  wiv  'er  in  the  same  'ouse,  if  I  wuz  ter  do  that. 
We'd  be  for  h'everlastin'  prayin'  and  floppin'.  Not  but  wot 
religion  'as  its  uses;  but  not  for  me  in  'er  sense.  That's 
why  I  shut  me  h'eyes  when  she  was  a-bellowin'  at  the  cor 
ner.  But  I  saw  yer.  'Ow  is  the  old  bloke  nar?  Your 
uncle,  I  mean,  meanin'  no  disrespeck.  I've  h'often  thought 
that  if  we  'ad  met  under  'appier  h'auspices — h'auspices  is 
one  of  my  Grice's  words — we  might  'ave  been  pals." 

Peter  brought  about  the  'appier  h'auspices.  One  after 
noon  Cat's  Meat  halted  before  the  house  and  Mr.  Grace 
climbed  down  from  his  box,  a  bag  of  apples  in  one  hand 
and  his  whip  in  the  other.  He  was  very  red  in  the  face  and 
embarrassed ;  he  had  anything  but  a  sick-room  appearance, 
though  he  often  drove  in  funeral  processions.  He  was 
immensely  careful  about  the  wiping  of  his  feet.  Peter 
tried  to  coax  him  to  leave  his  whip  in  the  hall ;  he  wouldn't. 
He  seemed  to  think  that  it  lent  him  dignity,  and  explained 
his  status  in  the  world.  So  it  was  clutching  a  bag  of  apples 
and  clasping  his  whip  against  his  chest,  that  he  entered  the 
white  room  where  the  birds  hopped  in  and  out. 

Ocky  Waffles,  shifting  his  position  on  the  bed,  caught 
sight  of  the  weather-beaten,  alcoholic  figure.  Before  he 
could  say  a  word,  in  a  thick,  husky  voice  Mr.  Grace  of 
fered  his  apologies. 


318  THE    RAFT 

'''  'Ere.  'Ave  'em.  I  'ear  you  ain't  well."  He  swung  the 
bag  of  apples  on  to  the  bed.  "Bought  'em  from  a  gal  off  a 
barren"  He  paused  awkwardly. 

"That  was  good  of  you,"  said  Ocky.  "Come  and  sit 
down." 

Mr.  Grace  scratched  his  head.  "I  dunno  as  I  want  to  sit 
down.  I  dunno  as  you  and  me  is  friends.  Remember  the 
last  time  we  met  and  h'all  the  trouble  we  'ad?  You  wuz  a 
nice  old  cough-drop  in  them  days.  I  'ad  to  'it  yer  wiv  this 
'ere  whip — the  wery  same  one — to  make  yer  let  go  o'  the 
top  o'  the  gate  and  fall  inter  the  stable.  Well,  I  'it  yer  in 
kindness;  but  it's  because  I  'it  yer  that  I  dunno  whether 
you  and  me  is  friends." 

"We're   friends,"   said  Ocky. 

Mr.  Grace  sat  down.  It  was  most  curious,  all  this.  He 
hadn't  got  his  bearings.  This  chap,  lying  in  a  decent  bed 
and  waited  on  hand  and  foot  by  ladies,  was  Mr.  Waffles, 
if  you  please.  But  he  had  been  an  old  cock  who  climbed 
walls  to  avoid  policemen,  and  rode  about  at  night  in  philan 
thropic  cabs.  He  turned  to  him  gruffly.  "Eat  one  o'  them 
there  apples.  Bought  'em  from  a  gal  off  a  barrer. — Did 
h'l  tell  yer  that  h'already?"  It  was  a  sign  that  the  truce 
was  established. 

Mr.  Grace  became  a  frequent  caller.  An  odd  friendship 
grew  up  between  these  two  men,  both  broken  on  the  wheel 
of  feminine  perversity.  They  exchanged  notes  on  their 
experiences.  Ocky  spoke  to  the  old  cabby  with  greater 
freedom  than  to  anyone,  save  Peter.  Jehane  had  always 
said  of  him  that  he  found  it  easy  to  be  sociable  with  under 
lings  and  ostlers.  In  this  case  he  found  it  easy  because  of 
the  wide  charity  of  the  underling's  personal  laxity.  Some 
times  Miss  Effie  would  steal  in  and  read  to  them  of  a  man 
who  chose  his  companions  from  among  publicans  and  sin 
ners.  Mr.  Grace  would  pay  her  the  closest  attention  and 
ask  her  to  repeat  certain  passages ;  he  was  picking  up  point 
ers,  with  which  to  challenge  his  daughter's  confident  asser 
tions  concerning  God's  unvarying  severity. 

And  then  Jehane!     She  came  one  afternoon  to  Topbury 


THE   WORLD   AND   OCKY  319 

to  visit  Nan.  She  had  heard  nothing;  nothing  was  told 
her.  Peter  waited  for  an  opportunity  to  get  her  to  himself. 
In  the  garden  after  dinner  the  others  contrived  to  leave 
them  together. 

"Going  up  to  Oxford,  Peter  ?  Oh,  well,  it's  good  to  have 
opportunities  and  a  father  with  money.  My  poor  Eustace, 

he'll  never  have  that.  I  might,  while  you're  there ." 

She  paused ;  the  thought  had  just  occurred  to  her — a  new 
plan  for  marrying  off  her  girls  "I  might  let  Glory  and 
Riska  visit  my  father  and  mother  while  you're  there.  It 
would  be  pleasant  for  all  of  you.  Would  you  like  that  ?" 

"Splendid,"  said  Peter. 

She  eyed  him,  suspecting  the  sincerity  of  his  enthusiasm. 
"Of  course,  if  you  don't  want  your  cousins ." 

"I  do,"  he  assured  her.  "I'm  going  to  Calvary  College; 
that's  just  opposite  Professor  Usk's  house.  I'll  be  able 
to  see  plenty  of  them."  Then,  knowing  how  she  liked  to 
be  appealed  to  as  a  person  with  superior  knowledge,  "I  wish 
you'd  tell  me  some  of  the  things  I  mustn't  do;  Oxford 
etiquette's  so  full  of  mustrits." 

She  laughed ;  the  hard  lines  softened  about  her  mouth. 
Talking  about  Oxford  made  her  think  of  her  girlhood, 
when  to  be  the  daughter  of  a  don  was  to  be  something  akin 
to  an  aristocrat.  Those  days  were  sufficiently  far  removed 
for  her  to  have  forgotten  their  dread  of  spinsterhood,  and 
for  her  to  remember  only  their  glamour.  "You  must  never 
use  tongs  to  your  sugar,"  she  said ;  "only  freshers  do  that — 
you  must  help  yourself  with  your  fingers.  And,  let  me  see ! 
You  must  never  wear  your  cap  and  gown  unless  it's  posi 
tively  necessary.  You  mustn't  speak  to  a  second  or  third- 
year  man  unless  he  speaks  to  you  first. — Oh,  there  are  so 
many  mustnts  at  Oxford ;  it  would  take  all  evening." 

And  then,  "Did  your  mother  ever  tell  you  the  story  of 
how  we  first  met  Billy?  It  had  been  raining,  and  we  were 
waiting  to  go  on  the  river.  I  put  my  head  out  of  the  win 
dow  to  see  if  the  storm  was  over,  and  there  was  your 
father  looking  up  at  me.  I  used  to  tease  your  mother  by 
pretending  that  I  was  in  love  with  him.  I  shouldn't  won- 


320  THE    RAFT 

der — I  expect  she  still  believes  I  wanted  him.  You  see, 
Nan  and  I  were  inseparable  as  girls.  We  used  to  be  hor 
ribly  scared  of  not  marrying — we  didn't  know  as  much 
about  marriage  then.  We  used  to  think  that  girls  were 
born  on  a  raft  and  that  only  a  man  could  come  to  their 
rescue.  Funny  idea,  wasn't  it?" 

"And  if  the  man  didn't  come?" 

"Why,  if  the  man  didn't  come,  we  believed  girls  missed 
everything — believed  they  got  blown  out  to  sea,  out  of 
sight  of  land  and  starved  with  thirst.  That  was  what  made 
your  mother  so  jealous,  when  I  pretended  to  be  in  love 
with  Billy.  She  was  afraid  she'd  lose  her  one  and  only 
chance  of  getting  safe  ashore  to  the  land  of  matrimony." 

That  was  Jehane's  public  version  of  how  love  had  mis 
carried  between  herself  and  Harrington. 

So  she  ran  on,  remembering  and  remembering,  as  they 
walked  the  garden  path  from  the  mulberry  to  the  pear 
trees,  forth  and  back,  back  and  forth,  while  the  sunset 
reddened  the  creepers  on  the  walls  and  the  loft-window, 
from  which  Ocky  had  watched  in  vain  for  her  coming, 
looked  down  on  them  emptily. 

When  it  was  time  for  her  to  be  getting  on  her  way, 
Peter  volunteered  to  accompany  her  to  the  station.  They 
chose  the  Lowbury  Station  instead  of  the  Topbury,  because 
it  would  take  longer  and  they  could  continue  their  con 
versation  about  Oxford,  her  Promised  Land  of  the  past. 

"You  must  have  had  good  times  as  a  girl." 

Good  times!  Hadn't  she?  She  painted  for  him  the  joys 
of  Eights'  Week,  the  excitement  of  the  Toggers,  the  tre 
mendous  elations  of  a  young  and  vivid  'Varsity  world. 
She  painted  them  for  him  as  romantic  realities  which  she 
had  lived  to  the  full  and  lost.  And  the  odd  thing  was  that 
she  believed  that  she  had  been  happy  then.  All  her  life 
it  had  been  then  that  she  had  been  happy.  Her  Eldorados 
had  always  been  behind  her — never  in  the  To-days  or  the 
To-morrows.  When  she  pitied  herself,  her  otherwise  bar 
ren  nature  blossomed  into  a  tragic  luxuriance  that  was 
almost  noble,  and  entirely  picturesque. 


THE    WORLD    AND    OCKY  321 

She  hadn't  noticed  where  Peter  was  leading  her.  She 
found  herself  in  a  broad  and  quiet  street,  through  which 
little  traffic  passed.  The  pavements,  on  either  side  of  it, 
were  lined  with  plane-trees.  Houses  stood  far  back  from 
the  road  in  gardens,  with  stone  steps  climbing  up  to  them. 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  Peter's  arm.  Now  that  Nan 
wasn't  there  to  be  pleased  by  it,  she  was  willing  to  let  him 
know  that  she  was  proud  of  him.  In  the  silver  twilight, 
when  one  sees  with  the  imagination  rather  than  with  the 
eyes,  she  found  his  face  like  to  one  which  had  looked  up 
at  her  suddenly  and  held  her  spell-bound  in  the  gray  blur 
of  an  Oxford  street. 

"Is  this  the  right  way,  Peter?  Is  it  a  short-cut?  Are 
you  taking1  me  out  of  my  way  to  lengthen  our  talk?" 

He  laughed,  rather  excitedly  she  thought.  "I  like  to  hear 

you  telling  of  the  old  days Hulloa!  Why  here's  the 

Misses  Jacobite's  house!  You  remember  what  you  said 
about  women  being  on  a  raft — I  think  that  explains  them. 
No  one  came  out  from  the  land  to  take  them  off.  Let's 
step  inside  and  cheer  them  up." 

"But  Peter,  my  train ." 

"Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  trains — we  needn't  stop  more 
than  a  second." 

"You  rascal !"  She  gave  his  arm  a  little  hug.  "I  believe 
you  had  this  in  mind  from  the  start." 

"Perhaps  I  had." 

When  they  were  safe  inside  the  hall  and  the  door  had 
closed  behind  them,  his  manner  altered.  She  was  conscious 
of  it  in  a  second.  He  no  longer  laughed,  and  he  was  more 
excited. 

"There's  someone  here  who  wants  to  meet  you,"  he  in 
formed  her. 

"But  who?     Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  wanted  to  give  you  a  surprise." 

She  looked  annoyed  and  yet  curious.  "You  must  tell 
me.  Is  it  a  man  or  a  woman?" 

He  didn't  dare  to  let  her  know  that  it  was  her  hus 
band. 


322  THE    RAFT 

"You'll   see   presently." 

She  was  beginning  to  protest;  Miss  Florence  entered. 
Under  her  attempt  at  cordiality  her  face  betrayed  dismay, 
and  something  still  less  comfortable — judgment.  Peter 
employed  her  entrance  as  an  excuse  for  his  own  rapid 
exit.  He  soon  returned.  "They  want  to  see  you  now." 

Making  the  best  of  an  awkward  situation,  Jehane  ex 
claimed,  "They !  So  there  are  several  of  them !  It  was 
only  'someone'  at  first." 

She  followed  him  up  the  stairs,  trying  to  catch  up  with 
and  question  him;  he  was  careful  to  keep  sufficiently  far 
ahead  to  prevent  conversation.  He  opened  a  door  on  the 
landing — the  door  which  led  into  the  white  room.  He  made 
as  if  he  were  going  to  accompany  her,  but,  as  she  crossed 
the  threshold,  stepped  back  and  closed  the  door. 

"You !" 

The  man  held  out  his  arms.  When  she  stood  rigid  and 
did  not  stir,  he  dragged  himself  across  the  bed,  as  if  to 
come  to  her. 

"Don't." 

Her  voice  was  sudden  like  a  whip  cracked. 

His  arms  fell  to  his  side.  After  all  these  years  of  ab 
sence,  her  stronger  will  lashed  down  his  desire.  He  began 
ramblingly,  shame-facedly,  hinting  at  what  he  meant,  not 

having  the  audacity  to  finish  his  sentences.  "I  had  to . 

I  made  Peter  promise.  When  they  let  me  out,  I  was  think 
ing  of  you.  All  the  time  in  there,  for  four  years,  I  was 

thinking  of .  Jehane,  I've  been  punished  enough.  Isn't 

it  possible  that ?  Jehane,  I  love  you.  I  always  have. 

I  always  shall." 

He  was  aching  to  touch  her.  Through  the  mist  of  twi 
light  that  drifted  through  the  room,  he  fed  his  eyes  on 
every  detail  of  this  woman  who  had  once  been  familiar  to 
him.  She  hadn't  changed  much ;  it  was  he  who  was  altered. 
She  also  made  her  sternly  pitiful  estimate — the  shrunken 
body,  the  loose-lipped,  purposeless  mouth,  the  hair  growing 
thin  and  gray  about  the  temples. 

He  stretched  out  his  arms.    "I  love  you." 


THE   WORLD   AND   OCKY  323 

She  shuddered ;  it  was  as  though  a  man  from  the  grave 
had  called  to  her. 

"Love  me !"  Her  voice  was  so  low  that  his  ears  were 
strained  to  catch  what  she  said.  "No.  You  never  loved 
me;  you  weren't  strong  enough  for  that.  It  was  all  a  mis 
take;  we  never  belonged  to  each  other.  If  you  had  loved 

me,  you  wouldn't  have But  we  won't  talk  about  it. 

I'm  not  bitter;  but  we  must  go  our  own  ways  now." 

He  was  lying  across  the  edge  of  the  bed,  threatening 
to  reach  across  the  gulf  that  spread  between  them.  The 
nearer  he  came,  the  more  she  saw  what  had  happened. 
He  was  old — a  senile,  night-robed  caricature  of  the  man  she 
had  married.  In  the  half-light  her  fear  of  his  claim  on  her 
made  him  ghastly. 

He  was  moving — he  was  getting  out  of  bed.  She  opened 
the  door,  running  as  she  would  have  run  from  a  skeleton. 
He  was  following  her  down  the  stairs.  She  fancied  that 
he  touched  her.  It  seemed  that  he  leapt  through  the  air. 
Something  fell.  In  the  hall  people  tried  to  stay  her.  She 
was  in  the  street  where  the  plane-trees  rustled;  how  she 
managed  to  get  there  she  could  not  tell.  She  ran  on,  fear 
ing  that  he  still  followed. 

She  halted  for  want  of  breath.  Where  was  she? 
Lighted  trams  were  passing.  She  jumped  on  the  first,  giv 
ing  no  thought  to  its  direction.  Not  until  she  was  safe 
aboard  and  moving,  did  she  dare  to  look  back. 

Nothing  was  there,  nothing  gaunt  and  hungry — only 
saunterers  and  girls  with  their  lovers,  drifting  dreamlike 
through  the  shadows  under  lamps  against  whose  glare 
moths  hurled  their  fragile  bodies,  beating  their  lives  out 
flutteringly. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 
THE    BENEVOLENT    DELILAHS 

DESPITE  the  Misses  Jacobite's  efforts  to  keep  him  ill, 
Ocky  insisted  on  getting  better.  His  cork-like  nature  re 
fused  to  be  submerged  by  adversity;  it  was  warranted  un- 
sinkable. 

At  first,  after  repeated  and  urgent  requests,  he  was  al 
lowed  to  sit  by  the  window  in  a  dressing-gown.  Then  he 
was  allowed  to  get  partly  dressed  and  to  ramble  about  the 
house  in  carpet-slippers.  At  last  he  was  permitted  to 
venture  into  the  garden.  There,  for  some  days,  his  adven 
tures  ended.  His  four  benevolent  Delilahs  had  the  felicity 
of  watching  their  captive-man,  pottering  in  the  sunshine, 
watering  the  grass  and  tying  up  the  flowers,  while  leaves 
tapped  against  the  walls  and  birds  flew  over  him. 

They  were  terribly  afraid  that  presently  he  would  con 
template  an  exodus.  It  was  so  very  long  since  they  had 
had  anything  to  do  with  men — they  had  almost  forgotten 
what  things  amused  them.  In  those  far-off  days  when 
the  world  was  young  and  lovers  were  frequent,  they  had 
played  and  sung  a  little.  But  the  drawing-room  was  faded, 
their  songs  were  out  of  date,  the  piano  was  out  of  tune,  and 

their  voices .  Perhaps  those  lovers  had  never  really 

cared  for  their  singing;  appearing  to  care  had  afforded  an 
excuse  for  sitting  close  to  the  singers,  as  they  turned  the 
pages  of  their  music. 

Mr.  Waffles  mustn't  be  allowed  to  get  dull — that  would 
be  fatal.  They  asked  him  if  he  would  be  so  good  as  to 
keep  an  eye  on  the  cats — to  see  that  they  didn't  pounce 
on  any  of  the  birds  who  made  a  home  in  their  garden. 
Mr.  Waffles  promised.  But  the  cats  still  stole  along  the 

324 


THE    BENEVOLENT    DELILAHS  325 

wall  and  crept  through  the  bushes,  unmolested  by  the  weary 
gentleman  in  carpet-slippers. 

Something  had  to  be  done.  The  case  grew  desperate. 
The  four  gray  sisters  hunted  through  their  father's  library 
and  searched  out  books — Dickens'  novels  in  paper-covers, 
issued  in  parts  at  a  time  when  a  new  character  from  Boz 
was  more  exciting  than  a  new  comet  hurled  through  the 
night  from  the  unseen  shores  of  eternity.  Dickens  left  Mr. 
Waffles  cold ;  his  tastes  were  not  literary.  He  fell  asleep 
with  David  Copperfield  face-down  beside  his  chair,  while 
the  sunlight  played  leap-frog  with  the  shadows  across  the 
lawn. 

He  had  to  be  amused.  Providence  sent  a  diversion. 
Seated  beneath  the  apple  tree,  where  the  shrubbery  began, 
Miss  Florence  was  assuring  her  Samson  for  the  hundredth 
time  of  how  glad  she  and  her  sisters  were  to  have  him  with 
them.  To  enforce  the  sincerity  of  her  words,  she  had 
stretched  out  her  hand  to  touch  him — had  almost  touched 
him — when  a  shocked  voice  exclaimed,  "What  the  devil! 
What  the  devil !  Poor  father !  Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !" 

Miss  Florence  jumped  back  from  Mr.  Waffles.  Had  he 
accused  her?  She  saw  that  his  lips  were  not  moving — that 
in  fact,  he  was  as  surprised  as  herself.  Both  looked  slowly 
round.  Their  astonished  glances  found  nothing  more  per 
turbing  than  the  innocent  greenness  of  the  garden  and  the 
noiseless  hopping  of  birds. 

The  voice  came  again,  maliciously  strident.  "Oh,  dear! 
Oh,  dear!  What  the  devil!  What  the  devil!" 

Overhead,  perched  on  a  branch,  was  a  gray  and  scarlet 
parrot.  From  whom  had  it  escaped?  How  long  had  it 
been  there?  All  they  knew  was  that,  while  taking  refuge 
in  their  garden,  it  was  not  above  reviling  them.  At  night 
it  formed  the  habit  of  roosting  in  the  apple  tree.  Before 
anyone  was  out  of  bed,  it  could  be  heard  profaning  the 
early  morning. 

The  energies  of  the  entire  household  were  now  directed 
toward  the  effecting  of  its  capture.  Ingenious  plans  were 
concocted.  A  topic  of  conversation  was  never  lacking. 


326  THE    RAFT 

The  four  elderly  ladies  placed  themselves  under  their 
guest's  protection.  What  would  the  neighbors  think  if  they 
were  to  hear  a  constant  stream  of  blasphemy  issuing  from 
their  walls?  And,  besides,  the  parrot  in  a  cage  could  be 
taught  better  manners  and  made  an  attractive  pet. 

Mr.  Grace,  on  a  visit,  learnt  of  the  situation  and  volun 
teered  to  lend  a  hand.  He  and  Mr.  Waffles  were  pro 
vided  with  bags  of  grain  and  butterfly-nets.  They  were 
instructed  to  creep  with  the  stealth  of  poachers  behind 
ambuscades  of  trees  and  flowers,  following  the  gray  and 
scarlet  peril  till  it  settled,  and  then 

But  the  triumphant  moment  was  continually  postponed ; 
for,  whenever  they  approached  the  parrot,  no  matter  how 
warily,  it  spread  its  wings,  mocking  them  and  crying, 
"What  the  devil!" — or  something  even  worse. 

Ocky's  days  were  fully  occupied  now.  He  had  a  morn 
ing-to-evening  interest.  The  Misses  Jacobite  urged  on  him 
the  importance  of  his  task — the  safeguarding  of  their  repu 
tation. 

But  even  a  trust  so  sacred  and  incessant  failed  to  con 
tent  Mr.  Waffles.  Peter  made  this  discovery  when  his  uncle 
asked  him  for  the  loan  of  a  shilling.  "Voluntary  contri 
butions  thankfully  borrowed,"  was  Ocky's  motto.  No  one 
ever  gave  him  anything.  It  was  always  lent.  Now  money 
implied  an  excursion  into  the  larger  world ;  Peter  won 
dered  what  might  be  its  purpose.  He  knew  next  morning ; 
his  uncle  had  a  sixpenny  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a  tin  of 
cheap  tobacco  in  his  pocket.  He  was  stoking  up  to  renew 
life's  battle;  with  a  pipe  between  his  teeth,  Ocky  Waffles 
was  a  man. 

He  led  Peter  down  the  garden  to  the  shrubbery,  behind 
which  were  two  cane-chairs.  The  shrubbery  was  con 
venient  for  hiding  the  fact  that  he  was  smoking. 

"Peter,"  he  said,  jerking  his  head  across  his  shoulder, 
"I've  been  noticing.  They  can't  afford  it.  I've  got  to  go 
to  work,  old  chap." 

He  spoke  with  his  old  swaggering  confidence,  as  though 
the  entire  world  was  waiting  to  engage  his  services.  The 


THE    BENEVOLENT    DELILAHS  327 

carpet-slippers,  which  had  been  Mr.  Jacobite's,  chafed  one 
against  the  other  thoughtfully. 

"Got  to  go  to  work,"  he  repeated  reflectively,  in  a  tone 
which  implied  regret.  "I  think  I  know  a  fellow —  We 

were  in  the  coop  together,  and  he  said But  I'm  not 

going  to  tell  you  till  I'm  more  certain  of  my  plans." 

Had  he  been  burdened  with  the  weightiest  of  financial 
secrets,  he  could  not  have  made  them  more  mysterious. 
Peter  tried  not  to  smile;  he  was  glad — this  was  the  mud 
dling  self-deceived  uncle  he  remembered. 

Ocky  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  waiting  for  the 
bowl  to  cool  before  he  filled  it.  "I  hadn't  an  idea  that  they 
had  so  little.  It's  come  home  to  me  gradually — the  worn 
carpets  and  old  things  everywhere.  And  here  have  I  been 
eating  my  head  off.  We'll  have  to  pay  'em  back,  Peter — 
have  to  pay  'em  back." 

Peter  had  reason  to  be  sceptical  about  the  paying  back ; 
he  applauded  the  intention.  Except  in  imagination,  his 
uncle  had  never  been  much  of  a  money-maker.  He  had 
always  been  unemployable ;  he  was  ten  times  more  unem 
ployable  now  with  a  prison  record.  Peter  spoke  to  his 
father,  with  the  result  that  a  position  was  offered  as  packer 
in  a  publisher's  establishment.  Ocky  refused  it.  "Got 
something  better." 

The  "something  better"  was  at  last  divulged.  One  after 
noon  Peter  found  his  uncle  up  the  apple-tree,  trying  to 
balance  a  box  in  its  branches.  In  the  box  was  scattered 
the  kind  of  food  best  calculated  to  tempt  the  appetite  of  a 
parrot.  The  box  had  a  flap-door  leading  into  it,  propped 
open  by  a  stick  from  which  a  string  dangled.  If  an  ill- 
natured  bird  were  to  enter  the  box  and  a  lady  beneath 
the  tree  were  to  pull  on  the  string,  thus  dragging  away  the 
stick,  the  door  would  shut  and  the  ill-natured  bird  would 
be  a  captive.  Gathered  under  the  tree  were  the  four  Misses 
Jacobite,  looking  very  weepy  and  calling  up  warnings  to 
their  guest,  please  not  to  fall  and  to  be  careful. 

Peter  knew  what  it  meant — these  were  the  last  offices 
of  gratitude  which  preceded  departure. 


328  THE    RAFT 

When  the  adventurous  gentleman  had  clambered  down, 
it  was  seen  that  he  wore  his  shabby  spats  and  that  his 
mustaches  were  pointed  with  wax.  He  led  Peter  aside  and 
winked  at  him  solemnly.  It  was  the  return  from  Elba ; 
after  exile,  he  was  going  forth  to  conquer  the  world 
afresh. 

"Well?"  said  Peter. 

"Well?"  said  Ocky. 

"Leaving?"  asked  Peter. 

"  'S'afternoon,"  said  Ocky.  Then,  after  a  silence,  which 
heightened  the  suspense,  came  the  revelation.  "There's  a 
fellow,  I  know,  a  Mr.  Widow — we  were  in  the  coop  to 
gether.  A  nice  fellow !  He  oughtn't  to  have  been  there. 
Seems  he  was  in  the  second-hand  business  and  dressed  like 
.a  parson  to  inspire  confidence.  Well,  his  wife  was  a  gad 
about  woman  and  always  jeering  at  him.  One  day,  quite 
quietly,  in  a  necessary  sort  of  manner,  without  losing  his 
temper,  so  he  told  me,  he  up  and  clumped  her  over  the 
head.  He  went  out  to  a  sale,  never  thinking  he'd  done  any 
more  than  was  his  duty ;  when  he  came  back  she  was  dead. 
He's  a  nice,  kind  sort  of  chap,  is  Jimmie  Widow,  and  re 
ligious.  Not  a  bit  like  a  murderer.  If  you  didn't  start 
with  a  prejudice,  you'd  like  him,  Peter.  I  met  him  a  fort 
night  ago.  He's  opened  a  little  place  in  Soho  and  wants 
me  to  join  him.  I'm  to  mind  shop  while  he's  out.  There's 
heaps  of  money  to  be  made  in  the  second-hand  business. 
You  see,  I'll  surprise  you  all  and  die  a  rich  man  yet." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Peter,  "I— I  hope  so." 

Mr.  Grace  thought  it  just  as  well  that  his  friend  should 
enter  on  his  new  adventure  with  the  appearance  of  pros 
perity.  He  offered  him  a  free  ride  in  his  cab.  So  Ocky 
took  leave  of  his  benevolent  Delilahs  not  as  a  pedestrian 
but,  as  he  had  arrived — a  carriage-gentleman. 

Shortly  after  his  exit,  the  parrot  was  pounced  on  and 
eaten  by  a  cat.  With  the  first  money  that  he  earned,  Ocky 
made  up  for  the  loss  with  the  gift  of  a  pair  of  love-birds. 
The  Misses  Jacobite  named  one  Ocky  and  the  other  Waf 
fles.  Which  was  the  husband-bird  and  which  the  lady  was 


THE    BENEVOLENT    DELILAHS  329 

a  matter  in  continual  dispute  between  the  sisters.  Miss 
Florence  insisted  that  Waffles  was  the  husband,  because 
it  had  the  more  considerate  habits.  The  other  she  thought 
of  as  Jehane,  and  disliked. 

The  question  was  still  undecided,  when  a  hawker  of  gold 
fish  happened  to  call.  No  gold-fish  were  required ;  but  the 
conversation  veered  round  to  the  sex  of  love-birds.  The 
peddler  confessed  that  in  his  spare  moments  'e  did  a  bit  in 
poultry  and  bulldogs.  He  was  at  once  invited  to  enter, 
with  all  the  deference  that  is  due  to  an  expert.  Having 
inspected  Ocky  and  Waffles,  he  announced  as  his  verdict 
that  them  bloomin'  love-birds  wuz  either  both  cocks  or  both 
'ens;  but,  whether  cocks  or  'ens,  even  he,  with  a  vast  ex 
perience  be'ind  him,  could  not  tell. 

When  he  had  departed,  a  silver  cruet-stand  was  missed 
from  the  sideboard.  And  there  the  perplexing  problem 
rested. 


CHAPTER    XXXV 
WINGED   BIRDS  AND   ROOTED  TREES 

A  SUMMER'S  afternoon  in  London!  The  gold-gray  ma 
jesty  of  the  Embankment,  basking  in  sunlight ;  the  silver- 
gray  flowing  of  the  Thames  beneath  its  many  bridges ; 
smoke,  bidding  a  casual  good-by  to  chimneys,  sauntering  off 
a  truant  into  the  quiet  blue;  trees,  bravely  green  and 
a-flutter;  a  steamer  swerving  in  to  the  landing  at  West 
minster!  His  decision  came  suddenly.  She  had  asked  him 
to  visit  her.  Perhaps — perhaps,  she  could  tell  him  what 
had  happened  to  Cherry. 

He  jumped  off  the  bus,  crossed  the  road  at  a  run, 
sprang  down  the  steps  and  thrust  his  money  through  the 
hole  in  the  ticket-window.  "A  return  to  Kew." 

The  man  in  the  box  was  ostentatiously  slow  in  counting 
out  the  change.  These  young  bloods  made  him  bitter. 
With  all  the  years  before  them,  they  were  always  late  and 
always  in  a  hurry.  He  sold  them  their  passports  to  cool 
green  places ;  he  himself  was  left  permanently  behind  by 
that  streak  of  gleaming  river. 

"  'Eaps  o'  time,"  he  grumbled.  "Yes,  that's  your  one." 
Then,  having  at  last  handed  over  the  change  and  a  ticket, 
"Best  skip  lively,  or  you'll  lose  'er." 

Peter  skipped  lively;  to  the  man's  disappointment,  he 
scrambled  aboard  just  as  the  steamer  was  casting  loose. 
She  shot  out  into  the  current,  panting  and  splashing,  kick 
ing  up  a  merry  white  wake.  The  Houses  of  Parliament 
grew  tall  and,  at  last,  spectral  in  the  distance.  The  dome 
of  St.  Paul's  lay,  a  black  bubble  swollen  to  bursting,  on 
the  lip  of  the  horizon.  The  smoke  of  London  trembled 

330 


WINGED    BIRDS    AND    ROOTED   TREES    331 

like  a  thin  flag,  waving  back  the  encroaching  sky.  The 
groan  of  creeping  traffic  was  stilled ;  stone-palaces  of  labor 
sank  and  sank,  shorn  of  their  height  and  supremacy.  This 
was  the  road  to  Arcady,  the  flowing  road  to  the  land  of 
birds  and  grass  pavements.  They  were  on  the  outskirts 
of  that  land  already;  everybody  felt  it.  A  red-nosed 
minstrel  drew  his  harp  between  his  knees  and  fumbled  at 
the  string's.  He  assured  his  public  tunefully  that  he  had 
dreamt  that  he  dwelt  in  marble  halls.  It  was  difficult  to 
believe  him;  he  didn't  look  a  soulful  fellow.  Nevertheless, 
in  his  decrepit  person,  he  echoed  the  hopes  of  incredible 
romance.  The  crowd  grew  careless  of  appearances  and 
jaunty.  Cockney  swains  cuddled  their  girls  more  closely; 
the  girls,  rather  proud  than  abashed,  tittered. 

Battersea  Park  drifted  by,  a  green  mist  of  trees  and 
romping  children.  Against  the  red-brick  background  of 
Chelsea,  scarlet-coated  soldiers  strolled,  unwarriorlike, 
keeping  pace  with  pram-trundling  nurse-maids.  The 
steamer  seemed  to  stand  still;  it  was  the  banks,  on  either 
side,  that  traveled. 

The  harpist,  having  tried  his  nose  at  romance,,  came  back 
to  reality.  Perhaps,  it  was  because  he  sang  so  much 
through  it,  that  his  nose  was  so  long  and  red. 

"Sez   I,   'Be   Mrs.   'Awkins,   Mrs.   'Enery  'Awkins, 
Or  acrost  the  seas  I'll  roam. 
So  'elp  me,  Bob,  I'm  crazy, 
Liza,  yer  a  daisy — 
Won't  yer  share  my  'umble  'ome?'" 

In  vulgar  language  he  gave  exact  utterance  to  Peter's 
emotions.  Not  that  he  had  any  home  for  Cherry  to  share. 
He  wasn't  likely  to  have  for  a  long  time  to  come.  He 
had  to  go  to  Oxford  first,  there  to  be  drilled  for  his  tussle 
with  the  world.  And  yet,  unreasonably,  too  previously, 
against  all  laws  of  caution  and  common  sense,  he  wanted 
to  hear  her  say  that  she  cared  for  him. 

He  had  every  reason  to  believe  the  contrary.  He  had 
written  to  her,  and  had  received  only  a  line  in  answer, 


332  THE    RAFT 

"Let's  forget.  For  your  sake  it  would  be  better."  After 
that  his  many  letters  had  been  returned  to  him  unopened, 
indicating  that  the  address  was  unknown.  He  had  tried 
to  get  into  touch  with  the  Faun  Man  and  Harry,  but  they 
were  on  the  Continent,  roving.  Then,  he  had  thought  of  the 
golden  woman.  She  had  been  kind  to  him.  She  had  asked 
him  to  visit  her.  She  and  Cherry  were  scarcely  friends, 
but  she  might  tell  him  where  he  could  find  her. 

"Let's  forget."  The  words  rang  in  his  ears.  They  tor 
mented  him.  They  made  him  both  sad  and  angry.  They 
seemed  to  treat  all  love  as  a  flirtation,  as  a  stroll  beneath  the 
stars  which  must  end.  He  didn't  want  an  ending1 — couldn't 
conceive  that  it  was  possible.  Was  she  heartless  or — or 
had  she  mistaken  him?  Was  it  that  she  didn't  under 
stand  love's  finality?  Or  that  she  did  understand,  and  was 
frightened?  Or — and  this  was  the  doubt  that  haunted 
him  most — that  she  didn't  really  like  him? 

Putney !  Mortlake !  Racing-shells  skimming  the  sur 
face  of  the  water !  Bridges  wading  from  bank  to  bank ! 
Bathing  boys  who  stood  up  naked,  waving  to  the  passing 
steamer!  Then  Kew,  green  and  somnolent,,  with  its 
plumed  trees  and  low-browed  houses.  Peter  landed.  The 
crowd  melted,  breaking  up  into  couples  who  wandered  off, 
purposeless  and  happy.  They  had  only  escaped  from  Lon 
don  that  they  might  be  alone  together.  Should  they  go  to 
the  Botanical  Gardens?  Oh,  yes.  Anywhere — it  didn't 
matter.  Anywhere,  so  long  as  they  could  sit  together  and 
hold  hands. 

He  crossed  the  bridge;  stopped  a  stranger  and  asked 
a  question ;  turned  along  the  bank  and  came  to  a  house, 
little  more  than  a  cottage — a  nest  tucked  away  amid  shrubs 
and  trees,  with  the  river  in  view. 

Like  the  frill  on  a  woman's  dress,  a  green  verandah  ran 
round  it.  Everything  was  cool  and  neat  and  hushed.  The 
bushes  were  trim  and  orderly.  The  gravel-path  had  been 
smoothly  raked — not  a  stone  was  awry.  Flowers  stood 
sweetly  demure,  in  rows  like  school-girls  awaiting  a  good 
conduct  prize  and  trying  to  forget  that  they  had  ever  been 


WINGED   BIRDS   AND   ROOTED   TREES    333 

hoydens.  On  the  lawn  an  automatic  sprinkler  was  at  work, 
revolving  slowly  and  throwing  up  a  cloud  of  spray. 

As  he  approached  the  porch,  misty  with  wistaria  and 
passion-flowers,  he  searched  the  windows  for  signs  of  life. 
They  were  so  clear  that  they  seemed  to  be  without  panes, 
giving  direct  entrance  to  the  pleasant  rooms  inside.  They 
seemed  to  say,  "We  have  nothing  to  hide— nothing." 
Brasses  shone  as  brightly  as  a  more  precious  metal.  The 
door  lent  a  virginal  touch  of  whiteness. 

He  rang  the  bell  and  heard  a  faint  tinkle,  then  the  rust 
ling  of  skirts,  accompanied  by  prim  footsteps.  A  severely 
attired  maid  admitted  him.  He  gazed  round  the  room  into 
which  he  was  shown.  Books,  artistically  bound,  lay  on  the 
table.  Everything  gave  evidence  of  fastidiousness  and 
taste — of  a  certain  remoteness  from  the  everyday  jostle 
of  life.  Above  an  inlaid  desk  stood  a  portrait,  silver- 
framed.  Out  of  curiosity  Peter  tiptoed  over ;  the  Faun 
Man  gazed  out  at  him  with  laughing  eyes.  Lying  open  on 
the  desk  was  a  well-thumbed  volume,  small  and  bound  like  a 
Bible.  A  passage  was  underscored,  which  read,  "Thou 
must  be  lord  and  master  of  thine  own  actions,  and  not 
a  slave  or  hireling."  Turning  to  the  title-page,  he  found 
that  it  was  The  Imitation  of  Christ. 

A  voice  behind  him  said,  "Ah,  so  you've  discovered  me !" 

He  drew  himself  up,  afraid  she  might  suspect  him  of 
spying.  "I — I  was  interested  by  the  words  you'd  under 
lined.  I  wanted  to  see  who  wrote  them.  I  oughtn't  to 
have " 

She  laughed  softly,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  She  was 
all  in  white — lazy,  splendid  and  vital.  "My  Loo-ard !  Don't 
apologize.  You  were  surprised.  I  don't  blame  you."  She 
nodded  her  head  like  a  knowing  child.  "Oh,  yes,  Peter, 
the  golden  woman  reads  books  like  that  sometimes." 

She  took  his  hands  in  hers  and  drew  him  over  to  a  sofa, 
making  him  sit  down  beside  her.  "And  now,  what  have 
you  come  to  tell  me?" 

He  recovered  from  his  confusion  and  surrendered,  as  all 
men  did,  to  her  graciousness.  "That  it's  ripping  to  see 


334  THE    RAFT 

you.  But — but  how  did  you  know  I  called  you  the  golden 
woman  ?" 

"Lorie — he  tells  me  everything."  She  leant  back  her 
long  fine  throat,  pillowing  her  head  against  the  cushions. 
"You  must  never  trust  him  with  any  of  your  secrets,  if 

you  don't  want  me  to Now,  what  is  it  that  you've 

come  to  tell  me?" 

"Then,  you  know ?"  He  hesitated.  The  confession 

to  him  was  sacred ;  there  was  amusement  in  her  eyes. 
"Then  you  know  about  me  and  Cherry?"  He  was  sure  she 
did.  She  had  greeted  him  as  though  his  visit  had  been 
long  expected. 

She  placed  her  cool  fingers  about  his  wrist  and  bent  her 
head  nearer.  Her  voice  was  low.  and  caressing — the  voice 
of  one  who  breaks  bad  news  gently.  "I  know.  You  told 

her  that  you  loved  her. Why  didn't  you  come  to  me 

sooner?" 

She  was  looking  sorry  for  him.  "Why  sooner?"  he  ques 
tioned. 

''Because  she's  gone  away." 

It  was  almost  as  though  she  had  told  him  that  Cherry 
had  died.  "Away?  Where  to?" 

"I  don't  know.  Lorie  didn't  say;  he  took  her.  Per 
haps,  to  the  convent.  Poor  little  girl,  you — you  frightened 
her,  Peter." 

"If" 

He  was  all  amazement.  What  a  contrast  there  was  be 
tween  these  two !  The  boy  so  inexperienced  and  crest 
fallen  ;  the  golden  woman  so  wise  and  quiet.  "Yes,  you, 
Peter.  You're  so  natural  and  uncivilized.  You  were  too 
sudden  with  her.  You  told  her  that  you  loved  her  just  as 
a  child  would — directly  you  felt  it.  You  wanted  to  kiss  her 
without  waste  of  time.  You  galloped  too  fast,  Peter;  you 
tried  to  take  all  the  fences  at  one  stride."  Her  voice  grew 
more  tender;  she  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap,  looking 
away  from  him,  straight  before  her.  "You're — you're  the 
sort  of  lover  we  older  women  dream  of  when  the  hour's 
gone  by.  The  men  who  come  to  us  are  too  cautious ;  they 


WINGED    BIRDS    AND    ROOTED    TREES    335 

watch  for  the  lines  in  our  faces.  They've  learnt  to  play 

safe.  But  you,  with  your  glorious  youth !  And  she 

didn't  recognize  it — didn't  know  what  you  were  offering." 
The  blue  eyes  came  back  slowly  to  his  face.  She  ended, 
"And  so,  she's  gone  away." 

Peter  felt  unhappy  and  yet  comforted.  She  had  en 
vied  him  something  of  which  he  had  been  ashamed — the 
unavoidable  indiscretion  of  his  lack  of  age.  She  had  called 
it  glorious ;  she  hadn't  thought  it  foolish.  "But  what  must  I 
do  ?  Will  she — will  she  come  back  again  ?  Will  she  under 
stand,  one  day,  the  way  you  do  ?" 

She  answered  evasively.  "One  day !  We  women  all 
understand  one  day." 

He  repeated  his  question,  "But  what  must  I  do  ?" 

She  put  her  arm  about  his  shoulder.  "Wait.  It's  all 
that  either  of  us  can  do." 

Why  did  she  include  herself  ?  The  room  was  very  silent. 
In  its  patient  preparedness,  it  must  have  spent  years  in 
waiting.  The  garden  outside  seemed  to  listen,  tiptoe.  The 
door  was  white,  as  if  little  used.  The  sunlight  on  the  lawn 
crept  slowly.  Everything  watched  ,*  yet  nothing  was  wide 
awake.  For  whom  were  they  all  expectant?  Always  there 
is  one  who  allows,  and  one  who  loves.  Was  that  the  ex 
planation  ? 

Above  the  open  volume  of  cloistered  consolation,  with 
its  disillusioned  counsels  of  timid  patience,  the  Faun  Man 
smiled  from  his  silver  frame.  Peter  had  always  thought 

.  So,  after  all,  was  it  the  Faun  Man  who  had  delayed? 

And  Cherry  loved  him !  Had  that  anything  to  do  with  it  ? 
He  crushed  the  suspicion  down — and  yet  it  survived. 

"And  you  don't  know .  You  couldn't  tell  me  where 

to  write?" 

The  golden  woman  shook  her  head.  "Who  can  say? 
You  don't  know  much  about  love,  Peter.  It's  a  continual 
hoping  for  something  which  never  happens — or  which, 
when  it  happens,  is  something  different.  People  say  it's  a 
state  of  heart — it's  really  a  state  of  mind.  I  think — and 
you'll  hate  me  for  saying  it — I  think  true  love  is  always 


336  THE    RAFT 

on  one  side  and  is  always  disappointed.  Did  you  ever  hear 
about  the  green  tree  and  the  bird  in  the  morn?  You 
didn't? 

"A  bird  in  the  morn 
To  a  green  tree  was  calling: 
'Come  over.  Come  over. 
Night's  vanished.     Day's  born. 

And  I'm  weary — I  want  you,  green  tree,  for  my  lover; 
Through  clouds   I  am   falling, 
A-flutter,  a-flutter. 
I'm  lonely, 
Here  only. 

And  heard  your  leaves  mutter. 
Night's  vanished.  Day's  born. 
So  run  out  and  fold  me,  green  tree,  in  the  morn.' 

"The  bird   in  the  morn 
Heard   a   distant   tree   sighing: 
T  cannot  come  over — 
Night's  vanished.  Day's  born. 

I   am   rooted.     But  haste,  oh   sweet  bird,   to   your   lover; 
So  freely  you're  flying, 
A-flutter,   a-flutter. 
Sink  hither, 
Not  thither. 

Hark  how  my  leaves  mutter, 
Night's  vanished.  Love's  born.' 
The  bird  flew — ah,  whither?     The  tree  was   forlorn." 

She  stroked  his  hand.  "In  true  love/'  she  said,  "there's 
always  one  who  could  but  won't,  and  one  who  would  but 
cannot." 

"Not  always,"  he  denied.  He  spoke  confidently,  remem 
bering  his  mother  and  father. 

"How  certain  you  are !"  She  watched  him  mockingly. 
"Ah,  you  know  of  an  exception !  Believe  me,  Peter,  winged 
birds  and  rooted  trees  are  by  far  the  more  common." 

She  made  him  feel  that  she  shared  his  dilemma — that 
she  reckoned  herself,  with  him,  among  the  trees  which  are 
rooted.  The  bond  of  sympathy  was  established. 

"We,"  she  whispered,  "you  and  I,  Peter,  we  must  wait 


WINGED   BIRDS   AND   ROOTED   TREES    337 

for  our  winged  birds  to  visit  us.  We  can't  go  to  them, 
however  we  try." 

She  sprang  up  with  a  quick  change  of  expression;  in  a 
flash  she  was  radiant.  "My  Loo-ard,  but  we  needn't  be 
tragic." 

Running  to  the  window,  she  flung  it  wide.  "Look  out 
there.  The  sun,  the  river,  the  grass — they're  happy.  What 
do  they  care  ?  It's  our  hearts  that  are  unhappy.  We  won't 
have  any  hearts,  Peter." 

He  crossed  the  room  to  her.  With  the  freedom  of  a 
sister,  she  put  her  arm  about  him,  leaning  so  that  her  hair 
just  touched  his  face.  She  seemed  to  be  excusing  her 
action.  "You're  only  a  boy.  How  old  shall  we  say.  Just 
fourteen,  perhaps.  Why,  little  Peter,  you're  too  young  to 

be  in  love. Do  you  remember  the  saying,  that  every 

load  has  two  handles :  one  by  which  it  can  be  carried ;  one 
by  which  it  cannot  ?  You  and  I  are  going  to  find  the  handle 
by  which  it  can  be  carried — is  that  a  bargain?  I'll  show 
you  the  handle — it's  not  to  take  yourself  or  anyone  too 
seriously.  You're  making  a  face,  Peter,  as  though  I'd  given 
you  nasty  medicine.  You  were  determined  to  be  most  aw 
fully  wretched  over  Cherry,  weren't  you?  Well,  you 
mustn't.  Wait  half  a  second." 

Her  half-seconds  were  half-hours  to  other  people.  When 
she  reappeared,  she  was  clad  girlishly  in  a  white  dress, 
which  hung  above  her  ankles.  At  her  breast  was  a  yellow 
rose.  Her  golden  hair  was  wrapped  in  bands  about  her 
h.ead.  There  swung  from  her  hand  a  broad  river-hat.  Peter 
thought  that,  if  the  Faun  Man  could  see  her  now,  he 
wouldn't  wait  much  longer.  But  it  was  contradictory — this 
that  she  had  told  him;  he  had  always  supposed  that  it  was 
she  who  had  kept  the  Faun  Man  waiting.  For  himself 
he  was  wishing  that  she  were  Cherry. 

Before  the  mirror,  over  the  empty  fireplace,  she  stooped 
to  adjust  her  hat.  Her  arms  curved  up  to  her  shining 
head,  the  loose  sleeves  falling  back  from  them ;  they  looked 
like  handles  of  ivory  on  a  gold-rimmed  goblet.  The  mo 
tive  of  the  attitude  was  lost  on  Peter;  he  only  took  in  the 


338  THE    RAFT 

general  effect.  Her  eyes,  watching  him  from  the  glass,  saw 
that.  He  was  thinking  how  na'ive  she  was  to  have  taken 
thirty  minutes  over  dressing,  and  then  to  pretend  that  she 
had  hurried  by  coming  down  with  her  hat  in  her  hand. 

"Ready,"  she  said.  "Do  you  like  me  in  this  dress?  If 
you  don't,  I'll  change  it." 

"If  I  took  you  at  your  word .  But  would  you  really? 

I'm  almost  tempted  to  put  you  to  the  test." 

"I  would  really,"  she  said. 

"I  do  like  you."  He  spoke  with  boyish  downrightness. 
"You  know  jolly  well  that  you  look  splendid  in  anything." 

She  pretended  to  be  abashed  and  hurried  into  the  garden, 
singing  just  above  her  breath, 

"I  like  you  in  satin, 
I    like    you    in    fluff." 

She  seemed  to  forget  the  words  and  hummed ;  but,  as 
she  came  to  the  end  of  the  air,  she  crouched  her  chin 
against  her  shoulder,  looking  back  at  him  naughtily, 

"I  love  you  and  like  you 
In — oh,    anything    at    all." 

They  walked  by  the  muffled  river;  trees  were  reflected 
so  clearly  on  its  surface  that  it  was  easy  to  mistake  illu 
sion  for  reality.  Everything  was  asleep  or  listless  in  the 
summer  sun.  They  came  to  a  point  where  they  ferried 
across.  They  entered  Kew  Gardens  and  sauntered  into 
the  Palace  for  coolness.  They  didn't  care  where  their  feet 
led  them ;  all  the  while  they  talked — about  life,  love,  men 
and  women,  but  really,  under  the  disguise  of  words,  about 
Cherry  and  the  Faun  Man.  In  her  company  he  had  found 
a  sudden  relief  from  suspense. 

She  was  so  smiling,  so  generous,  and  at  times  so  anxious 
to  be  reckless,  like  a  clever  child  saying  slant-eyed  things 
of  which  the  meaning  was  half-guessed.  He  was  elated  to 
be  seen  with  her;  she  was  rare  and  beautiful. 

Toward  evening  he  turned  back  from  the  land  of  stately 


WINGED    BIRDS   AND   ROOTED   TREES    339 

trees  and  grass-pavements  to  the  clamor  of  the  perturbed 
and  narrow  city.  The  river  was  a  thread  of  gold ;  the 
sun  foundered  red  in  a  crimson  sea  of  cloud.  The  thread 
of  gold  broadened  as  bridges  grew  more  frequent ;  black 
wharfs  took  the  place  of  meadows  and  sat  huddled  along 
the  banks  like  homeless  beggars.  But  it  was  the  majesty, 
not  the  meanness  of  London,  that  impressed  him.  His 
eyes  were  on  the  horizon,  where  the  lace-wo-k  tower  of 
Westminster  shot  up,  sculptured  and  ethereal,  and  still 
further  beyond  where,  above  herded  roofs,  the  dome  of 
St.  Paul's  protruded  like  a  woman's  breast. 

He  landed  at  Westminster  Bridge  and  ran  up  the  steps. 
What  a  different  world !  How  many  hours  was  it  since 
he  had  been  there?  He  had  recovered  his  sense  of  life's 
magic. 

The  tethered  man  in  the  ticket-office  eyed  him  gloomily. 
"Still  in  a  hurry,"  he  thought,  "and  with  all  the  years  of 
life  before  him.  Ugh  !" 

That  afternoon  was  the  pattern  of  many  that  followed. 
He  came  from  London  to  Kew,  simply  and  solely  that  he 
might  speak  about  Cherry,  and  always  with  the  hope  that 
he  might  gain  some  news  of  her.  Subtly  the  golden 
woman  would  lead  the  conversation  round  to  herself.  It 
was  only  at  parting  that  he  would  discover  this.  Once  he 
said,  laughingly,  'Why,  we've  spent  all  our  time  in  talking 
about  you !"  Then  he  stopped,  for  he  saw  that  he  had  not 
pleased  her.  "Next  time  it  shall  be  all  about  Cherry,"  he 
told  himself;  but  it  wasn't. 

He  had  never  had  a  woman  consult  him  before  about  her 
dress  and  the  styles  of  doing  her  hair.  The  golden  woman 
did ;  she  made  him  tell  her  just  what  he  preferred.  When 
he  met  her,  she  came  to  express  a  part  of  his  personality. 

In  the  intimacy  which  grew  up  between  them,  the  small 
reserves  of  pride  and  reticence  were  broken  down.  They 
spoke  their  minds  aloud. 

"I'm  getting  old,  Peter,"  she  would  say.  But  this  was 
only  on  the  days  when  she  looked  youngest. 

If  he  had  no  money,  he  would  tell  her;  then,  she  would 


340  THE    RAFT 

either  pay  or  they  would  make  their  pleasures  inexpensive. 
He  regarded  her  as  a  sister  older  than  himself. 

"What  shall  I  call  you?"  he  asked  her.  "Haven't  you 
noticed  that  I  have  no  name  for  you?" 

She  slipped  her  arm  into  his.  "The  golden  woman.  I 
like  that.  It's  you — it  has  the  touch  of  poetry." 

"I  gave  you  that  name,"  he  said,  "the  moment  I  saw 
you — years  ago,  at  the  Happy  Cottage." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide,  pretending  to  be  offended. 
"Years  ago !  How  cruel !  Years  ago  to  you ;  but  to  me 
not  so  long  ago — four  years,  wasn't  it?  Why  do  you  say 
things  that  make  me  feel  ancient?" 

"When  you're  beautiful ."  He  got  no  farther;  his 

tongue  stumbled  at  compliments.  He  was  going  to  have 
said  that,  when  you  were  very  beautiful,  years  didn't  mat 
ter. 

She  caught  at  his  words.  "Then  you  think  I'm  beauti 
ful?" 

"Think,  indeed!" 

"As  beautiful  as  Cherry?" 

He  avoided  answering,  saying  instead,  "See  how  every 
one  turns  to  look  after  you." 

She  fell  silent,  only  to  return  to  the  topic  long  after  he 
had  forgotten  it.  "Yes,  they  look  after  me  and  go  away. 
That  isn't  like  having  someone  with  you  always." 

She  could  make  him  feel  very  unhappy — more  unhappy 
than  anyone  he  had  ever  met.  She  could  say  such  lonely 
things,  and  almost  as  though  he  were  to  blame  for  her 
loneliness.  She  could  talk  exquisitely  of  love  and  little 
children.  He  wondered  why  the  Faun  Man  hadn't  mar 
ried  her. 

One  afternoon  he  had  stopped  longer  than  usual.  They 
had  walked  through  Kew  Gardens,  and  had  sat  in  a  tea- 
garden  watching  the  trippers.  It  had  been  one  of  their 
gay  days,  when  they  had  built  up  absurd  philosophies.  She 
had  told  him  that  all  that  any  woman  could  love  was  the 
sixth  part  of  any  man — all  the  other  five-sixths  were  dis 
tasteful.  Her  idea  was  that  every  woman  should  be  allowed 


WINGED   BIRDS   AND   ROOTED   TREES    341 

to  have  six  husbands ;  then,  by  taking  what  she  liked  out  of 
each  of  them,  she  would  have  one  perfect  man.  They  had 
dawdled  in  the  tea-garden  out  of  compassion,  rescuing 
wasps  with  teaspoons  from  drowning  in  the  jam.  When 
they  rose  to  go,  evening  was  gathering.  On  the  bridge  they 
paused,  gazing  down  at  the  gray  creeping  of  the  river  and 
the  slow  drifting  of  the  boats.  Suddenly  she  reverted  from 
gay  to  sad. 

"If  I  were  old,  Peter,  you  wouldn't  come  to  see  me  so 
often.  One  day,  though  I  try  to  fight  it  off,  one  day  I 
shall  be  old."  At  the  gate,  in  the  wistful  twilight,  she 
lifted  up  her  face.  "If  I  were  to  ask  you  to  kiss  me, 
would  you?" 

"I  think  I  would." 

But  she  didn't  ask  him. 

A  strange  summer  made  up  of  waiting,  visits  to  Kew 
and  interludes  of  work !  In  those  interludes  he*  studied 
hard,  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  his  preparation  for 
Oxford.  The  first  question  he  always  asked  the  golden 
woman — asked  her  breathlessly — was,  "Is  there  any  news 
of  her?"  The  answer  was  always  the  same — a  negative. 
Sometimes  she  would  read  him  portions  of  letters  which 
she  had  received  from  the  Faun  Man.  There  was  never 
any  mention  of  Cherry.  He  grew  sick  at  heart  with  wait 
ing.  The  golden  woman  alone  shared  his  secret;  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  speak  of  it  at  home. 

His  holiday  was  short  that  year — three  weeks  in  Surrey. 
On  his  return  Glory  came  to  stay  at  Topbury.  How  she 
had  escaped  his  memory !  He  was  a  little  surprised  by  her 
quiet  beauty;  his  surprise  wore  off  as  he  got  used  to  her. 
She  laid  so  little  emphasis  on  herself.  People  were  only 
aware  that  she  had  been  there  when  she  had  gone — an 
atmosphere  of  kindness  was  lacking.  Then  they  looked 
up,  were  puzzled  and  remembered,  "Oh  yes,  Glory. 
Where's  she  vanished?  Thought  she  was  here."  She 
only  once  penetrated  into  Peter's  world — then  only  for  a 
few  hours.  A  boy  in  love  can  think  only  of  one  woman. 

That  once  occurred  on  a  rainy  morning,   in  the  study 


342  THE    RAFT 

which  had  been  his  nursery.  He  had  just  sat  down  and 
had  his  nose  in  his  books.  Someone  touched  him. 

"Peter,  you  don't  mind,  do  you?  If  you're  busy  now, 
I'll  come  again  later." 

He  looked  up,  his  head  between  his  hands,  his  hair  all 
ruffled.  "Sorry.  Didn't  see  that  you  were  there.  Anything 
you  want  me  to  do?" 

The  sensitive  face  flushed.  He  noticed  that.  The  white 
hands  fluttered  against  her  breast.  "You  know  about 
father."  Her  voice  was  timid.  It  strove  and  sank  like 
a  spent  bird.  "Nobody's  told  me.  So,  Peter,  I  came  to 
you." 

"That's  a  shame.  He  used  to  be  our  secret.  What  d'you 
want  to  know  about  him,  Glory?" 

She  faltered  like  a  girl  much  younger.  "I  want  you  to 
take  me  to  him." 

That  afternoon  on  the  top  of  a  bus  they  set  off  to  Soho 
together.  What  that  excursion  meant  to  her,  what  thoughts 
tiptoed  to  and  fro  inside  her  head,  he  never  knew.  He 
never  guessed  how  proud  she  was  to  be  seen  alone  with  him 
in  public.  Her  thoughts  tiptoed  for  that  reason — so  that  no 
one  might  ever  guess.  They  found  Uncle  Waffles,  waxed 
mustaches  and  dingy  spats,  seated  in  a  dingy  shop.  They 
had  to  descend  a  step  to  enter.  The  riot  of  dirt  distressed 
Glory.  She  wanted  to  busy  herself  with  a  duster,  until  her 
stepfather  discouraged -her,  telling  her  that  it  was  no  use — 
it  would  be  as  bad  to-morrow ;  in  fact,  in  his  line  of  trade, 
dirt  was  a  kind  of  advertisement. 

Just  as  they  were  sitting  down  to  tea,  Mr.  Widow,  the 
murderer,  joined  them.  They  found  him  a  very  severe 
old  gentleman,  with  chop-whiskers  and  an  eye  to  other 
people's  imperfections.  Prison  seemed  to  have  strengthened 
his  moral  views.  Once  he  referred  to  "my  poor  wife,"  in  a 
tone  which  implied  that  she  had  died  respectably  of  blood- 
poisoning  or  cancer. 

Before  they  left,  Uncle  Waffles  took  Peter  aside  and  bor 
rowed  two-and-sixpence  in  a  whisper.  So  the  tea  was 
quite  expensive.  Perhaps  the  ease  with  which  he  had 


WINGED    BIRDS   AND   ROOTED   TREES    343 

contrived  to  borrow  had  something  to  do  with  the  heartiness 
of  his  invitation  that  they  should  drop  in  whenever  they 
were  passing. 

That  evening,  when  Glory  came  to  bid  Peter  good-night, 
she  asked,  "You'll  take  me  again,  won't  you.  He's — I  don't 
think  he's  happy." 

Peter  dragged  his  thoughts  away  from  his  work.  "Don't 
you?  Perhaps  Mr.  Widow  isn't  tremendously  cheerful 
company.  Of  course  I'll  take  you." 

His  eyes  were  going  back  to  his  books.  Glory  hesitated 
at  the  door,  saw  that  he  had  forgotten  her  and  slipped 
out.  There  was  a  song  about  a  rooted  tree  and  a  winged 
bird;  had  he  looked  up  at  that  moment  and  seen  her  ex 
pression,  he  might  have  remembered  it. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 
THE   SPREADING   OF   WINGS 

HE  might  have  been  setting  out  for  Australia  or  to  explore 
Tibet,  they  made  such  a  final  matter  of  his  going.  The 
way  in  which  he  was  waited  on,  considered  and  admired 
brought  to  his  remembrance  those  early  days  when  he  had 
been  sent  to  Miss  Rufus  to  be  cured  of  his  'magination. 

"But  motherkins,  dearest,  Oxford's  only  sixty  miles — a 
two  hours'  journey.  I  can  write  to  you  the  last  thing 
at  night  and  you  can  be  reading  me  next  morning  at  break 
fast." 

Nan  shook  her  head.  "It's  the  spreading  of  wings,  Peter 
— the  first  flight  from  the  nest.  You'll  come  back,  of 
course ;  but  always  more  rarely." 

She  foresaw  in  this  first  departure,  all  the  other  depart 
ures  that  lay  ahead.  The  day  was  coming  when  she  would 
be  left  alone.  She  pictured  herself  as  old  and  gray- 
headed,  sitting  listening  to  phantom  footsteps  of  memories 
which  passed  and  repassed,  but  never  brought  the  living 
presence.  Already  she  tasted  the  bitterness  of  the  woman 
who,  having  been  first,  must  learn  to  be  second  in  the 
affections  of  those  who  were  part  of  her  body.  Kay  and 
Peter  were  growing  up.  They  would  soon  have  their  secrets 
— their  interests  which  she  could  not  share.  They  would 
marry  and  enter  her  house  as  visitors.  She  pictured  all 
that ;  the  spreading  of  wings  had  commenced. 

When  Peter  had  been  a  little  boy  at  Sandport,  certain 
lines  had  driven  the  tears  into  her  eyes  with  their  wistful 
yearning.  They  were  often  on  her  lips  now : 

344 


THE    SPREADING    OF   WINGS  345 

"Oh,    to   come   home   once   more,    when   the    dusk   is    falling, 
To    see    the    nursery    lighted    and    the    children's    table    spread; 
'Mother,  mother,   mother !'  the  eager  voices  calling, 
'The  baby  was  so  sleepy  that  she  had  to  go  to  bed.' " 

Already  the  inexorable  law  of  change  had  taken  her  babies 

from  her,  and  soon .  There  would  come  a  day  when 

the  rooms  would  be  empty;  her  home  would  become  again 
what  it  was  before  she  had  entered  it — merely  a  house. 

When  Peter  laughed  at  her  tenderly,  attempting  to  coax 
her  into  braver  thoughts,  she  clung  to  him,  searching  his 
face  to  discover  the  odd  little  boy  who  had  asked  such 
curious  questions.  For  his  sake  she  would  smile  through 
her  tears,  saying,  "I'm  just  a  silly  woman,  getting  old, 
Peter.  Don't  think  that  I  grudge  you  anything.  I  don't, 
I  don't,  only — only  it's  the  first  spreading  of  wings — the 
struggling  out  of  the  nest." 

It  was  true — truer  than  she  fancied;  there  was  Cherry. 

However  late  he  worked  in  those  last  days,  however 
noiseless  he  made  his  feet  upon  the  stairs,  she  heard  him. 
Creeping  from  her  room,  she  would  stand  white-robed 
beside  his  bed,  stoop  above  his  face  on  the  pillow  and  tuck 
him  up  warmly.  It  wouldn't  be  for  much  longer — he  was 
almost  a  man. 

And  Billy — he  tried  to  laugh  her  out  of  a  sentiment 
which  he  fought  down  in  himself.  Manlike,  he  disguised 
his  feelings.  He  took  so  much  interest  in  the  preparations, 
that  it  might  have  been  he,  instead  of  Peter,  who  was 
going  up  to  Oxford.  By  day  he  pretended  to  be  cheerful; 
but  at  night,  when  she  lay  down  beside  him,  after  her  ex 
cursions  to  Peter's  bedroom,  he  would  take  her  in  his  arms, 
whispering  the  old  endearments,  "Golden  little  Nan,"  and 
"Princess  Pepperminta,"  just  to  let  her  understand  that, 
whoever  went  from  her,  he  would  be  left. 

One  October  afternoon  Mr.  Grace,  the  herald  of  Top- 
bury's  great  occasions,  drew  up  against  the  pavement. 
Boxes  were  carried  out.  Cat's  Meat  shuffled  away  into  the 
distance.  At  the  end  of  the  Terrace,  Peter  leant  from  the 
window ;  they  were  still  there,  waving  from  the  steps.  He 


346  THE    RAFT 

had  begged  them  not  to  come  to  the  station ;  he  knew  they 
would  break  down.  He  turned  the  corner — his  flight  had 
begun  in  earnest.  While  familiar  sights  lasted,  he  was 
conscious  not  of  adventure,  but  depression.  Yes,  that  was 
the  house  from  the  dusk  of  whose  garden  a  hand  had 
stretched  out  to  grasp  him.  Strange,  and  this  was  the  same 
Christmas  cab !  Inanimate  things  hadn't  changed ;  it  was 
he  who  had  altered. 

Then  came  the  excitement  of  Paddington — undergrads 
with  golf-bags  slung  across  their  shoulders;  others  who 
were  spectacled  and  looked  learned ;  still  others  with  ties  of 
contrasting  hues  and  secret  significance — a  crowd  superbly 
young  and  enthusiastic,  which  did  its  best  to  appear  blase. 
And  then  the  rush  of  the  train,  the  exalted  sense  of  op 
portunity,  the  overwhelming  consciousness  of  manhood, 
and  that  first  night  of  romantic  speculation  within  the  gray 
walls  of  Calvary  College !  Bells,  hanging  so  high  and 
sounding  so  mellow  that  they  seemed  to  swing  from  clouds, 
struck  out  the  hours.  His  mother  had  heard  them,  those 
same  bells,  in  her  girlhood.  By  craning  out,  he  could  see  the 
window  from  which  Jehane  had  caught  first  sight  of  his 
father  and  had  called  Nan's  attention.  He  was  beginning 
his  journey  at  the  spot  where  his  parents'  journey,  half 
way  over,  had  commenced.  Would  he  and  Cherry  tell  their 
children  stories  of  where  and  how  they  had  met?  He  and 
Cherry!  It  was  of  her  that  he  was  thinking  when  Harry 
Arran  entered  and  found  him  seated  among  his  partly 
opened  boxes. 

"Tried  to  reach  you  all  summer,"  Peter  said. 

Harry  was  taking  stock  of  the  room's  contents.  "I  say, 
old  boy,  you've  brought  no  end  of  furniture.  You'll  be 

quite  a  swell. What's  that?  Tried  to  reach  us  with 

letters,  did  you?  We  never  got  one  of  'em.  Never  knew 
our  next  address  ourselves.  Just  went  wandering,  you 
know.  My  brother's  such  an  erratic  chap." 

Peter  turned  away,  so  that  his  face  would  not  be  seen, 
and  spoke  in  an  offhand  manner.  "Cherry  with  you?" 

The  question  tickled  Harry.     He  straddled  his  legs  and 


THE    SPREADING   OF   WINGS  347 

watched  his  friend's  back,  tilting  his  head  toward  his  shoul 
der  with  a  magpie  expression  of  impertinent  knowledge. 
"Cherry  with  us !  No,  jolly  fear.  She's  a  nice  kid  and  all 
that,  but  we  weren't  out  for  love-affairs.  Fact  is,  I  was 
trying  to  make  that  silly  ass  brother  of  mine  forget  one 
woman.  We  carried  knapsacks  and  went  almost  in  rags. 
But  what  made  you  ask?" 

"I  thought  she  was.    The  golden  woman  said ." 

Harry  interrupted.  "Oh,  so  you've  been  seeing  her!" 
He  pronounced  her  with  his  old  hostility.  "I  wouldn't  see 
too  much  of  her." 

Peter  smiled  quietly.  How  unjust  Harry  had  always 
been  to  his  brother's  women  friends !  He  was  still  the 
mouth-organ  boy,  only  a  little  too  old  now  to  climb  trees  to 
display  his  jealousy.  Did  he  think  that  he  could  protect 
the  Faun  Man  forever  from  marrying?  Didn't  it  ever 
enter  his  head  that  he  might  fall  in  love  himself?  And 
yet  Peter  sympathized  with  Harry,  for  he  had  the  same 
feelings  with  regard  to  Kay.  He  would  hate  any  man  who 
tried  to  win  her.  That  was  a  long  way  off — she  was  only 
thirteen  at  present.  His  thoughts  came  back  to  Harry. 
"So,  if  you  were  me,  you  wouldn't  see  too  much  of  her! 
Why  not  ?  I've  been  feeling — well,  rather  sorry  for  her." 

"You  have,  have  you?"  Harry  laughed  tolerantly. 
"Sorry  for  her !  Pooh !  People  who  begin  by  feeling 
sorry  for  Eve  end  by  being  sorry  for  themselves.  She  al 
ways  starts  her  affairs  like  that,  by  getting  people  sorry 
for  her.  Don't  you  know  what's  the  matter  with  her? 
She's  selfish — a  lap-dog  kind  of  woman,  born  to  be  petted, 
but  of  no  use  whatever  in  the  world.  She  wants  everyone 
to  love  her,  and  gives  nothing  in  return.  She  doesn't  play 
the  game,  Peter ;  she  expects  to  have  a  man  always  toddling 

after  her,  but  she  won't  marry  him  because .  I  don't 

know;  I  suppose  it  would  disturb  her  to  have  children." 

Harry  paused,  waiting  for  Peter  to  argue  with  him. 
When  his  remarks  were  met  without  challenge,  he  con 
tinued,  "She  doesn't  mean  any  harm — her  sort  never  does ; 
but  she's  a  jolly  sight  more  dangerous  than  if  she  were 


348  THE    RAFT 

immoral.  She  gambles  like  an  expert  as  long  as  luck's  with 
her;  the  moment  she  loses,  she  pretends  to  be  a  little  child 
who  doesn't  understand  the  rules.  So  she  wins  all  the  time 
and  never  pays  back.  She's  kept  my  brother  feverish  for 
years,  loving  him,  and  then,  when  it  comes  to  the  point, 
not  knowing  whether  she  really  loves  him.  Gives  her  a 
nice  comfortable  sense,  when  anything  goes  wrong  with 
her  investments,  to  feel  that  he's  always  in  the  background. 
I'm  sick  of  it.  She's  a  ship  that's  always  setting  sail  for 
new  lands  and  never  coming  to  anchor.  Lorie's  too  fine  a 
chap  to  be  kept  dawdling  his  life  away  by  a  vain  woman. 
Some  day  she  won't  be  quite  so  pretty — she  dreads  that 
already;  it's  part  of  her  shallowness.  Then  she'll  run  to 

cover,  if  any  man'll  have  her. You  don't  believe  me. 

Suppose  you  think  every  woman's  wild  to  be  married?" 

"I  don't  think  that."  In  this  particular  Peter  flattered 
himself  that  he  had  had  more  experience  than  Harry. 

Harry  took  him  up  shrewdly.  "If  you  don't  think  it,  you 
wish  you  did.  You'll  see,  if  you  live  long  enough.  There 
are  heaps  of  well-bred  women  like  Eve,  with  the  greed  of 
chorus-girls  and  the  morals  of  refrigerators.  And  here's 
something  else  for  your  protection — Eve  can't  bear  to  see 
any  woman  loved  except  herself.  Lorie  knows  all  this,  and 
still  he's  infatuated — plays  Dante  to  her  Beatrice.  She  isn't 
worth  it.  She  tells  him  she  isn't  worth  it;  that  makes  him 
think  she's  noble.  She — she  sucks  men's  souls  out  for  the 
fun  of  doing  it  when  she  isn't  thirsty,  and  flings  them  in 
the  gutter  like  squeezed  oranges." 

Peter's  case  was  so  nearly  similar  to  the  Faun  Man's 
that  he  couldn't  bear  this  conversation.  It  was  as  though 
Harry  was  describing  and  accusing  Cherry.  She  sucks 
men's  souls  out  and  flings  them  in  the  gutter  like  squeezed 
oranges.  And  Cherry  hadn't  been  thirsty  either;  she  had 
pretended  that  she  hadn't  wanted  to  do  it. 

"But  Cherry,"  he  said,  "do  you  know  where  she  is  and 
anything  about  her?" 

Harry  looked  at  him  squarely,  a  little  pityingly.    He  sat 


THE    SPREADING   OF   WINGS  349 

down  and  crossed  his  legs.  "Yes.  We  took  her  abroad 

with  us  and  dropped  her  at  the  convent-school.  She's 

I  don't  know.  She's  got  a  queer  streak  in  her — she's  an 
exotic."  And  then,  "I  suppose  you  know  that  she  thinks 
she's  in  love  with  Lorie?" 

Peter  bit  his  lip;  he  drew  his  knee  up  with  his  hands 
clasped  about  it.  "I  know  that.  And  the  Faun  Man,  does 
he  care  for  her?" 

Harry  laughed.  "On  that  score  you  don't  need  to  be 
jealous.  He  wishes  she  wasn't  such  a  little  donkey.  He's 
bored  by  it.  It  complicates  matters  most  frightfully;  he's 
her  guardian.  We  had  a  most  awful  job  in  shaking  her. 
That's  why  we  left  her  at  the  convent.  Had  a  rotten  scene 
in  Paris — tears  and  hysterics.  She'd  planned  to  make  a 
third  in  our  party.  We  weren't  on  for  it,  you  can  bet 
your  hat." 

Peter  grew  impatient  at  Harry's  way  of  talking.  He 
spoke  shortly.  "So  you  know  where  she  is?  You  can 
give  me  her  address?" 

"I  can't."  The  grin  of  the  mouth-organ  boy,  poking 
fun  at  everything,  accompanied  the  refusal.  "The  kid  made 
us  promise  not  to  tell  you.  She  has  her  own  idea  of  play 
ing  fair.  Wish  Eve  had."  He  yawned.  "By  George, 
time  I  was  off  to  bed.  I've  got  to  be  up  bright  and  early 
to-morrow  to  call  on  Mr.  Thing — the  tutor-bird." 

Left  alone  in  the  stillness,  Peter  did  not  stir.  In  the 
street,  below  his  window,  footsteps  echoed  at  rare  intervals. 
Now  and  then,  as  men  parted  in  the  quadrangle,  laughter 
burst  on  the  night  and  voices  shouted.  Then,  again,  he 
heard  the  bells,  high  up  and  spectral,  telling  him  that  time 
was  passing.  He  thought  about  Harry,  envying  him  the 
cavalier  cloak  of  indifference  behind  which  he  hid  his 
sensitiveness.  He  thought  about  the  Faun  Man,  with  his 
fine  faculty  for  loving  wasted  all  these  years  by  an  un 
decided  woman.  And  he  thought  of  Eve  and  how  she  had 
misled  him,  letting  him  believe  that  the  Faun  Man  had 
deserted  her.  Why  had  she  done  it  ?  And  then  he  thought 


350  THE    RAFT 

of  Cherry,  poor  little  Cherry,  who  was  keeping  out  of  his 
way  that  she  might  play  fair. 

But  he  would  make  her  love  him.  He  would  work  day 
and  night  to  make  himself  splendid.  He  was  nothing  at 

present — had  nothing  to  offer  her.  But,  one  day .  And 

so,  with  the  invincible  optimism  of  youth,  he  pulled  himself 
together.  He  was  a  knight  riding  out  on  a  quest,  wearing 
his  lady's  badge  to  bring  her  honor. 

Had  he  cared,  he  might  have  pictured  to  himself  the  other 
adventurers  he  had  known,  who  had  ridden  out  in  the  same 
brave  belief  that  life  was  romantic :  Jehane,  who  had  looked 
from  the  window  across  the  street  and  had  beckoned  with 
her  eyes,  only  to  give  a  husband  to  another  woman ;  Ocky 
Waffles,  who  had  come  to  her  as  the  feeble  substitute  for 
the  nobility  she  had  coveted ;  his  mother  and  father  for 
whom,  despite  its  kindness,  life  had  proved  a  pedestrian 
affair.  But,  on  his  first  night  in  this  city  of  dreamers,  he 
saw,  stretching  away  below  him,  wide  landscapes  of  illu 
sion.  There  was  so  much  to  do,  so  much  to  experience, 
so  much  to  dare.  The  spreading  of  wings  had  brought 
him  to  a  crag  from  which  he  viewed,  not  the  catastrophe 
of  sunsets,  but  the  riot  of  morning  boiling  up  against  cloud- 
precipices  and  pouring  ensaffroned  and  clamorous  across 
the  world.  He  saw  only  the  glory  of  its  challenge,  nothing 
of  its  threat 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  his  belief  in  the  marvelous- 
ness  of  mere  living  was  quickened.  The  head  and  shoulders 
of  the  marvel  were  that,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  lord 
of  his  own  existence.  Like  God,  he  could  create  himself. 
Mr.  Thing,  the  tutor-bird,  advised  him,  in  a  sneering  tone 
of  voice,  that  he  had  a  chance  of  a  first  in  Honor  Mods. 
Mr.  Thing  had  become  embittered  by  past  experience  with 
other  brilliant  students.  "If  you  don't  take  to  drink  and 
to  yowling  like  a  cat  of  nights,  you  may  do  it,  Mr.  Barring- 
ton.  But  I  expect  you'll  run  wild  like  the  rest." 

Peter  was  claimed  by  Roy  Hardcastle,  the  captain  of  the 
boats.  His  breadth  and  height,  and  slightness  of  hip 
marked  him  as  a  potential  oarsman.  Every  afternoon  he 


THE    SPREADING   OF   WINGS  351 

ran  down  through  the  meadows  to  the  barges,  there  to  be 
tubbed  and  sworn  at  by  the  coaches.  He  rowed  in  the 
Junior  Fours  as  stroke  and  won  his  race.  He  was  chosen  as 
stroke  for  the  Toggers — after  that  his  career  as  an  athlete 
was  settled.  Calvary  men  began  to  prophesy  a  rowing  fu 
ture  for  him.  He  noticed  that  men,  not  of  his  own  col 
lege,  paused  on  the  bank  to  watch  his  style  as  his  eight 
swung  by. 

The  keenness  of  Oxford  life  awoke  him  to  his  powers; 
the  contempt  in  which  slackers  were  held  spurred  him  for 
ward.  He  had  never  been  called  upon  to  test  his  person 
ality  in  competition  with  others.  The  experience  took  him 
out  of  himself,  but  beneath  externals  he  remained  the 
same  simple-hearted,  compassionate  idealist.  He  was  dif 
ferent  from  other  men,  and  other  men  knew  it.  Perhaps 
it  was  that  he  was  uncivilized,  as  the  golden  woman  had  told 
him — uncivilized  in  the  sense  of  being  unsophisticated  and 
intense.  Perhaps  it  was  that  his  standards  were  pitched 
high,  and  that  he  was  chivalrous  in  his  attitude  of  clean 
ness  toward  himself.  At  all  events,  it  never  entered  his 
head  that  the  sowing  of  wild  oats  was  a  legitimate  em 
ployment.  Men  stopped  talking  about  certain  adventures 
when  he  was  present. 

Even  Mr.  Thing,  the  tutor-bird,  felt  it — this  subtle  atmos 
phere  of  robust  innocence,  which  Peter  carried  about  with 
him,  an  innocence  which  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  lily- 
white  priggishness  of  a  Sir  Galahad.  Mr.  Thing  was  rather 
surprised ;  he  had  always  felt  virtue  in  a  man  to  be  offensive 
and  had  compared  it  to  a  prim  little  maid  attired  for  a 
party,  refusing  to  romp  with  bolder  children  for  fear 
she  should  spoil  her  dress. 

Mr.  Thing  was  a  don  of  the  old  school,  a  two-bottle 
man;  not  infrequently  about  midnight  he  was  intoxicated. 
It  was  said  that  under  the  influence  of  wine  his  scholar 
ship  was  ripest.  He  would  recite  rolling  speeches  from 
Thucydides  in  the  language  of  Athens,  working  himself  up 
into  fervor  and  tears,  declaiming  in  a  voice  which  trembled 


352  THE    RAFT 

with  humanity  and  trumpeted  with  valor.  But  when,  after 
drinking  to  excess,  he  met  Peter  beneath  the  stars  in  the 
shadowy  quads,  he  seemed  conscious  that  an  excuse  was 
necessary.  He  invented  a  lie,  this  gray-haired  scholar, 
beneath  which  to  hide  his  shame  from  clear-eyed  youth. 
It  was  reported  that  he  was  getting  ready  for  the  Judg 
ment  Day,  that  he  might  be  letter-perfect  in  his  apology  to 
his  maker. 

"Been  to  the  fun'ral  of  a  dear  fr'end,  Mr.  Barrington — 
a  very  dear  fr'end.  Been  taking  the  sharp  edge  off  my 
grief.  You  haven't  losht  a  dear  fr'end — not  so  dear  as  I 
have.  So  don't  you  do  it." 

He  showed  drunken  concern  lest  Peter  should  do  it, 
and  had  to  be  reassured  many  times.  At  last,  shaking  his 
head  sceptically,  he  would  permit  Peter  to  pilot  him  to  his 
room.  The  boy's  erectness  hurt  him;  it  accused  him.  It 
caused  him  to  look  back  and  remember  another  lad,  who,  be 
yond  the  waste  of  misspent  years,  had  been  not  unlike  him. 
One  night,  made  carelessly  sentimental  by  an  extra  bottle, 
he  told  the  truth.  "Wasn't  always  like  this,  Mr.  Barring- 
ton.  I  was  something  like  you — only  a  little  reckless.  She 

said  she'd  wait  for  me,  and  then .  So  that's  why. 

Now  you  know  it." 

Cakes  and  ale  in  the  imagination  of  young  Oxford  are 
usually  associated  with  licence.  To  be  abstemious  is  to  be 
unpopular  and  entails  persistent  ragging.  Peter  believed 
whole-heartedly  in  the  consumption  of  cakes  and  ale,  so 
long  as  it  wasn't  carried  to  the  point  of  gluttony.  He 
was  eager  to  taste  life,  and  took  part  in  all  the  fun  that 
was  going;  only  always  at  the  back  of  his  mind  lay  the 
thought  of  Cherry — he  must  make  himself  fine  for  her,  so 
as  to  be  worthy. 

He  got  into  frequent  adventurous  scrapes.  He  was  pres 
ent  at  the  Empire  with  Harry  when  a  young  lady,  whose 
stockings  were  the  most  conspicuous  part  of  her  clothing, 
came  to  the  footlights  and  sang  a  song,  each  verse  of  which 
ended  with  the  question, 


THE    SPREADING    OF    WINGS  353 

"Will  you   risk? 
I'd    risk    it. 
Wouldn't   you?" 

Harry  couldn't  bear  that  she  should  go  away  unanswered. 
The  courtesy  of  the  'Varsity  was  jeopardized.  Moreover, 
she  was  pretty  and  only  the  musicians  separated  him  from 
the  stage.  The  theme  of  the  song  was  kissing.  He  leapt 
the  orchestra-rail,  splashed  his  foot  on  the  key-board  of 
the  piano,  seized  her  hand  and  hauled  himself  up  beside  her, 
shouting,  "Yes,  I'll  risk  it." 

She  hadn't  intended  her  invitation  to  be  taken  so  seri 
ously.  With  becoming  modesty  she  broke  away  from  him, 
just  as  he  was  about  to  prove  his  assertion  that  he'd 
risk  it.  Harry  followed  her,  in  one  wing  and  out  the  other, 
to  and  fro  across  the  stage.  The  theatre  rose  yelling, 
watching  this  amorous  game  of  hide-and-seek.  Of  a  sud 
den  the  cry,  "Proggins  !  Proggins  !"  went  up.  The  Proc 
tor  and  his  bulldogs  entered.  Harry  jumped  from  the 
stage  into  his  seat.  Some  considerate  person  turned  out 
the  lights  and  there  was  a  rush  of  undergrads  for  the 
exits.  Peter  and  Harry  burst  into  the  night  with  the  Proc 
tor's  bulldogs  close  behind  them.  Then  came  the  long 
run;  the  brilliant  plan,  Peter's  invention,  that  they  should 
escape  over  walls  instead  of  by  thoroughfares ;  the  clamber 
ing  and  climbing,  the  dashes  across  gardens  and  the  final 
escape  into  freedom  through  the  house  of  a  startled  old 
gentleman  who  threw  his  slipper  after  them — but  not  for 
luck. 

Harry,  as  a  rule,  was  the  initiator  of  their  escapades; 
Peter  championed  them  to  a  finish  gamely.  The  mouth- 
organ  boy  walked  through  the  world  with  a  roving  eye, 
seeking  always  new  lands  of  innocent  adventure.  When 
he  had  almost  come  to  shipwreck  on  some  wild  coast  of 
whimsical  absurdity,  it  was  Peter  who  hurried  to  his  res 
cue.  The  song  which  he  had  sung  in  the  tree-tops  of 
Friday  Lane  had  been  a  prophecy.  He  still  sang  it  in  the 
austere  city  of  gray  walls  and  spires.  It  was  a  paean  of  high 
spirits  and  irrespressible  youth : 


354  THE    RAFT 

"I've  been  shipwrecked  off  Patagonia, 
Home  and  Colonia, 
Antipodonia ; 
I've  shot  cannibals, 
Funny-looking  animals, 
Top-knot  coons ; 

I've  bought  diamonds  twenty  a  penny  there, 
I've  been  somewhere,   nowhere,  anywhere — 
And  I'm  the  wise,  wise  man  of  the  wide,  wide  world." 

When  he  sang  it,  he  and  Peter  would  look  at  one  an 
other,  with  eyes  laughing,  and  would  talk  of  Kay — of  how 
they  had  commenced  their  friendship  by  fighting  over  her, 
and  of  how — of  so  many  things  that  were  kind  and  golden, 
like  memories  of  spring  days  when  the  wind  is  blow 
ing.  Little  Kay,  with  her  delicate  face  and  shining  hair, 
she  stood  a  white  flower  in  the  shadow-wood  of  remem 
brance — a  narcissus-shrine  to  which  their  steps  were  con 
tinually  returning.  So,  while  undergraduates  of  the  Roy 
Hardcastle  type  shouted  themselves  hoarse  on  Saturday 
nights  at  college  wine-clubs,  making  a  rowdy  effort  to  be 
men,  Peter  and  Harry,  without  effort,  remained  boys  and 
sat  concocting  fairy-tale  letters  to  a  little  girl  at  Topbury. 
They  refused  to  credit  the  evidence  of  their  eyes,  that  she 
was  growing  up.  They  signed  their  letters  jointly,  filling 
them  with  ridiculous  tenderness.  She  received  them  every 
Monday  morning  at  breakfast,  and  was  made  to  feel  that 
she  was  still  a  sharer  in  their  lives.  Because  Cherry  post 
poned  her  coming,  Peter  had  to  have  some  outlet  for  his 
affection.  In  a  curious  way  he  made  his  little  sister  the 
temporary  substitute  for  the  girl  he  loved.  It  did  not 
occur  to  him  to  inquire  what  motives  prompted  Harry's 
epistolary  philanthropy. 

Jehane  did  not  at  once  fulfil  her  promise  to  send  her 
girls  to  stay  with  Professor  Usk.  On  his  return  home 
for  Christmas  Peter  discovered  the  reason.  Riska  was  in 
the  throes  of  her  first  romance.  At  Topbury  shoulders 
were  shrugged.  Of  course  girls  of  fifteen  did  have  their 
flirtations,  but  it  was  only  among  the  lower-classes  that 


THE    SPREADING   OF   WINGS  355 

they  were  openly  acknowledged  and  dignified  into  love- 
affairs.  Jehane,  however,  took  the  matter  seriously.  She 
explained  why.  The  young  fellow  was  a  good  catch  and 
four  years  Riska's  senior ;  he  was  the  son  of  a  specula 
tive  builder  who  was  invading  Southgate  with  an  army 
of  jerry-built  villas.  The  story  of  how  Riska  had  effected 
the  young  man's  capture  proved  that  Jehane's  training  had 
been  efficient.  Riska  had  shown  a  fine  faculty  for  seizing 
her  strategic  opportunity.  Barrington's  comment  when  he 
heard  it  was  brief  and  to  the  point,  "Ought  to  be  spanked. 
If  she  grows  up  this  way,  she'll  make  her  face  the  dump 
ing-ground  for  anybody's  kisses." 

That  was  just  it;  in  her  fear  lest  her  girls  should  never 
marry,  Jehane  had  taught  Riska,  who  was  more  apt  a 
pupil  than  Glory,  to  welcome  any  comer  without  fastidious 
ness.  There  was  nothing  heaven-sent  about  marriage ; 
it  was  a  lucky-bag,  into  which  you  thrust  your  hand  and 
grabbed;  or,  to  employ  her  old  parable,  maidenhood  was  a 
raft  from  which  girls  who  were  wise  escaped  at  the  first 
opportunity,  in  cockle-boats,  on  boards  and  even  by  swim 
ming — the  great  object  was  to  reach  the  land  of  matrimony 
before  the  distance  between  the  shore  and  the  raft  had 
lengthened.  Possibly  one  might  get  wet  in  the  effort. 
One  couldn't  be  too  nice  over  an  affair  so  desperate.  It 
was  anything  to  attain  a  marriage-song. 

This  was  how  Riska's  first  excursion  from  the  raft  oc 
curred.  She  had  been  out  riding  her  bicycle  and  a  hat 
had  blown  by  her.  The  hat  must  belong  to  a  head.  She 
espied  the  head  and  liked  it;  therefore  she  chased  the  hat. 
Having  caught  it,  she  waited  for  the  owner  to  come  up. 
She  accepted  his  thanks  and  indulged  in  a  few  minutes' 
conversation.  Next  day,  riding  along  the  same  road  at  the 
same  hour,  she  had  encountered  the  owner  of  the  hat 
again.  After  that,  good-luck  and  liking  had  taken  a  hand 
in  bringing  them  together.  Soon  he  had  been  invited  to 
tea  at  the  cottage.  Jehane  had  made  things  easy  for  him. 
She  had  learnt  that  his  father  was  a  self-made,  ambitious 
man,  who  wore  side-whiskers  and  hoped  to  die  a  baronet. 


356  THE    RAFT 

"The  Governor,"  the  boy  had  told  her,  "wants  me  to  marry 
well."  There  lay  the  rub.  Would  his  father  consider  Riska 
good  enough?  The  name  of  the  young  fellow  was  Bona 
parte  Triggers. 

Jehane  felt  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  young 
Triggers  should  be  socially  impressed.  She  persuaded  Bar- 
rington  to  allow  Riska  to  bring  her  suitor  to  Topbury.  Be 
fore  he  came,  she  issued  a  careful  warning  that  no  mention 
was  to  be  made  of  Ocky  Waffles.  Closely  questioned,  she 
admitted  that,  without  deliberately  lying,  she  had  let  the 
boy  suppose  that  she  was  a  widow. 

"But,  if  he's  seriously  in  love  with  Riska,  you'll  have  to 
tell  him,"  Barrington  objected. 

Jehane's  face  clouded.  "That's  my  affair.  Who'd  marry 
the  daughter  of  a  convict?  It's  easy  for  you  to  talk." 

"Then  you  mean  that ?  Look  here,  I'm  not  criticiz 
ing;  but  don't  you  think  that  this'll  look  like  deception? 
Supposing  he  married  Riska  without  knowing,  he'd  be 
bound  to  find  out  after.  Let  Riska  tell  him.  If  he's  the 
right  kind  of  a  chap,  he'll  love  her  all  the  more  for  her 
honesty." 

Jehane  lost  her  temper  as  far  as  she  dared.  "You've 
always  been  against  me — always.  Of  course,  if  you're 
ashamed  of  us,  and  don't  want  Riska  to  bring  him ." 

There  was  no  arguing  along  these  lines.  Barrington 
gave  his  reluctant  consent. 

Riska  came,  bringing  with  her  Bonaparte  Triggers,  a 
flashy  youth  with  a  cockney  thinness  of  accent.  The  pur 
pose  of  his  visit  was  to  be  impressed  ;  he  made  it  clear 
from  the  start  that  he  had  come  to  impress.  He  did  not 
belong  to  a  world  of  culture  and  felt,  as  Ocky  Waffles  had 
felt  before  him,  that  an  effort  was  being  made  to  rob 
him  of  his  self-possession.  He  resisted  the  effort  by  smok 
ing  innumerable  cigarettes,  and  tried  to  parade  his  own 
paces  by  accompanying  himself  on  the  piano  while  he  sang 
music-hall  ditties  of  the  latest  hug-me-quick-and-not-too- 
delicately  order.  His  visit  was  not  a  success.  He  was 
jerry-built,  like  his  father's  villas. 


THE    SPREADING   OF   WINGS  357 

After  he  had  departed.  Nan  had  the  nervous  desire  to 
fling  up  all  the  windows  and  to  go  through  the  house  with 
a  duster.  It  wasn't  snobbishness  on  her  part,  but  she  was 
unaccustomed  to  see  fingers  squeezed  and  kisses  exchanged 
in  public.  Barrington  found  her  in  the  drawing-room  and 
slipped  his  hand  into  hers.  "It's  as  I  thought;  Riska's  not 
in  love  with  him.  Her  mother's  trained  her  to  believe  that 
the  first  man  to  come  should  be  the  first  man  accepted. 
And,  d'you  know,  Nan ?" 

"What,  Billy?" 

"Didn't  you  notice  anything?  She's  pretty  and  she's 
sweet,  because  she's  young;  but  already  she's  getting  hard 
and  calculating  like  Jehane.  I'm  afraid  for  her — she's  more 
passion  than  her  mother  ever  had.  She's  ripe  fruit,  and 
not  sixteen  yet;  if  she  isn't  plucked,  she'll  fall  to  the 

ground. It's  a  horrible  thing  to  say  of  a  young  girl." 

And  then,  "I  don't  like  him ;  but  I  hope  he  marries  her." 

He  didn't  marry  her;  Peter  and  Glory  were  blamed  for 
that.  Without  telling  anyone,  they  arranged  to  give  Ocky 
a  Christmas  treat.  What  form  the  treat  was  to  take  caused 
many  secret  discussions.  They  had  to  be  secret — all  Glory's 
dealings  with  her  stepfather  were  secret;  the  mention  of 
his  name  was  forbidden  by  her  mother. 

"How  about  a  theatre?"  Peter  suggested. 

Glory  shook  her  quiet  head.  "He's  not  very  intellec 
tual." 

"Well,  a  pantomime?" 

Glory  nodded.    "I  believe  he'd  like  that." 

So  once  again  she  set  out  alone  with  her  tall  cousin  on 
the  top  of  a  bus.  For  a  few  brief  hours  he  was  to  be 
hers  entirely.  In  anticipating  the  adventure,  she  had  racked 
her  brains  to  think  of  entertaining  subjects  to  talk  about. 
She  was  terribly  afraid  she  would  bore  him;  she  believed 
him  to  be  so  extraordinarily  clever.  She  needn't  have  wor 
ried.  He  was  a  big  boy  on  that  winter's  afternoon  and  not 
a  man.  Directly  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  Terrace,  he 
took  her  arm. 

"But  Peter !"  she  protested,  her  face  flushing. 


358  THE    RAFT 

"Don't  be  a  little  silly,"  he  told  her;  "you'll  slip  on  the 

snow  and  fall  down. I  say,  Glory,  you  do  look  ripping. 

How  you  have  got  yourself  up !  You've  put  on  every 
thing  except  the  parlor  sofa." 

At  Topbury  Corner  he  wanted  to  take  a  hansom,  but 
she  insisted  on  a  bus.  "No,  really.  I  prefer  it.  I've  a 
reason — yes.  But  I  wouldn't  tell  you  what  it  is  for 
worlds." 

Her  reason  was  that  she  was  afraid  to  be  left  alone  with 
him  lest  she  should  grow  self-conscious.  It  was  easier  to 
talk  in  crowds.  And  how  they  did  talk !  Her  little  pre 
pared  speeches,  her  scraps  of  nervously  gathered  informa 
tion  were  all  forgotten.  They  were  two  children  sailing 
through  a  Christmas  world  on  a  schooner  of  the  London 
streets.  House-tops  were  white  with  snow;  shops  gay 
with  decorations.  In  the  murky  grayness  of  the  sky  a 
derelict  sun  wallowed,  like  a  ship  on  fire.  It  was  a  happy 
day;  their  eyes  were  bright  to  find  something  on  every 
hand  to  laugh  about.  Now  it  was  a  cutler's  window,  merry 
with  mistletoe  and  holly,  all  a-gleam  with  gnashing  knives 
and  razors,  across  which  was  pasted  the  legend,  "Remem 
ber  the  Loved  Ones  at  Home."  Now  it  was  an  under 
taker's,  in  which  stood  a  placard : 

DO   IT   NOW 
JOIN    MY    COFFIN    CLUB 

ANYONE    CAN    LIVE 

MAKE    SURE   OF   GETTING   BURIED 

A   TACTFUL    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

GIVE   A   YEAR'S    SUBSCRIPTION    TO    A    FRIEND 

Glory  grew  out  of  her  shyness ;  she  snuggled  her  chin 
against  her  squirrel  muff,  laughing  and  chatting,  saying 
things  which  surprised  herself.  Peter  kept  glancing  at  her 
side-long.-  She  was  tender-looking.  Yes,  she  was  like 
Kay.  He'd  noticed  that  before.  He  noticed  her  for  a  day, 
and  then  forgot  her  for  months.  It  had  always  been  like 


THE    SPREADING   OF   WINGS  359 

that.  Was  it  his  fault?  She  was  like  a  snow-drop — she 
had  a  knack  of  hiding  herself. 

They  got  off  at  Wardour  Street,  tunneling  into  dingy 
alleys  from  which  Italy  watches  strangers  with  sad  brown 
eyes,  dreaming  of  vineyards  and  sun-baked  towns. 

Glory  twitched  his  arm.  "Down  here.  It's  a  short 
cut." 

"Hulloa!  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you've  been  here 
by  yourself?" 

She  looked  guilty;  then  smiled  up  from  beneath  her 
lashes.  She  had  nothing  to  fear  from  Peter.  "Often, 
since  you  first  brought  me.  Once  a  week,  at  least;  but 
don't  tell  mother.  He's  got  no  one  to  love  except  Mr. 
Widow.  I — I'm  sorry  for  him." 

Mr.  Widow  certainly  wasn't  much  to  love.  The  second 
hand  shop  had  a  cheerless  aspect.  On  this  winter's  day  the 
door  stood  open ;  Mr.  Widow  held  that  it  was  tempting  to 
customers.  Ocky  crouched  over  a  coke-stove,  rubbing  his 
hands.  The  moment  Glory  entered,  she  hurried  toward 
him,  putting  her  arms  about  his  neck.  His  face  lit  up. 
"Why,  it's  Glory !  Little  Glory !"  He  ran  his  hands  over 
her.  "How  beautiful !  But  you  oughtn't  to  come.  The 
Duchess'll  find  out.  Oh  yes,  she  will.  She  always  finds 
out.  Then,  there'll  be  a  row." 

He  caught  sight  of  Peter.  "Ha !  Young  Oxford  to  see 
his  poor  old  uncle !  I  went  to  Oxford  once.  Humph  !  Got 
married  there.  A  bad  day's  work !  A  bad  day's  work !" 

They  told  him  their  plans.  He  wanted  to  ask  Mr.  Wid 
ow's  permission — Mr.  Widow  didn't  approve  of  theatres. 
"Let  him  go  hang,"  Peter  said. 

"That's  all  very  well."  Ocky  shook  his  head  thought 
fully.  "All  very  well !  But  he  may  let  me  go  hang  one 
fine  morning.  What  then?" 

It  was  quite  evident  that  Ocky  was  losing  his  pluck. 
He  would  have  forgotten  his  spats  and  would  have  forgot 
ten  to  twirl  his  mustaches,  if  Glory  hadn't  been  at  hand  to 
make  him  jaunty. 

They  popped  him  into  a  hansom  and  whirled  him  off  to 


360  THE    RAFT 

dinner  at  the  Trocadero.  He  sat  between  them,  holding 
Glory's  hand  and  blinking  at  the  glaring  shops;  he  was 
more  accustomed  to  darkness.  At  the  entrance  to  the 
restaurant  he  clutched  at  Peter,  "I  don't  belong  here,  old 
chap." 

"Nonsense.     Glory  and  I " 

All  through  dinner  Peter  told  his  uncle  what  he  and 
Glory  were  going  to  do  for  him.  By-and-bye  he,  Peter, 
would  have  money.  When  he  had  money,  he  would  buy 
a  little  house  in  the  country.  Ocky  should  live  there  with 
Glory,  and  he,  Peter,  between  the  intervals  of  making 
more  money,  would  run  down  and  visit  them.  It  seemed 
almost  true,  almost  possible,  in  that  brilliant  room  where 
the  corks  flew  out  of  bottles  and  the  music  clashed.  It 
almost  seemed  that  the  world  was  generous — that  it  would 
give  him  another  chance.  He  gazed  from  the  eager  boy, 
so  keen  to  convince  him  of  happiness,  to  the  flower-face  of 
his  stepdaughter,  which  nodded  and  nodded,  insisting, 
"Yes.  Yes.  Yes,"  to  Peter's  optimism.  He  asked  if  he 
might  have  whisky.  When  he  got  it,  he  tried  to  deceive 
himself  and  others  as  to  the  quantity  he  was  drinking. 

"God  bless  my  soul !  I've  made  my  whisky  too  strong." 
Then  he  would  dilute  it.  "God  bless  my  soul!  I've  made 
my  whisky  too  weak."  The  alcohol  whipped  up  his  cour 
age.  Of  course  there  were  good  times  coming.  Peter 
would  see  to  it;  he  never  promised  anything  that  he  didn't 
accomplish.  Then,  again  he  caught  sight  of  the  two  young 
faces — but  what  had  Peter  to  do  with  Glory? 

They  stepped  into  another  hansom.  Piccadilly  Circus 
was  a  blazing  jewel.  Streets  were  gun-metal,  washed  with 
liquid  gold.  People  were  silver  flowers.  Peter  would  do 
it. 

The  curtain  went  up.  He  was  a  child  again.  He  laughed 
at  everything.  How  long  was  it  since  he  had  laughed? 
He  kept  nudging  his  companions,  afraid  lest  they  should 
miss  the  jokes.  They  were  just  the  kind  of  jokes  he  used 
to  make — Mr.  Widow  was  his  only  audience  now.  You 


THE    SPREADING   OF   WINGS  361 

couldn't  expect  a  murderer  to  be  a  humorist — if  he  were  a 
humorist  he  wouldn't  be  a  murderer. 

He  had  laughed  rather  louder  than  usual.  Someone 
turned  round  in  the  row  just  in  front.  A  girl!  He  looked 
more  closely.  She  was  staring  at  him.  Her  companion 
followed  her  eyes,  seemed  surprised,  and  nodded  to  Peter 
and  Glory.  All  through  the  evening  the  strange  man  kept 
turning  round  stealthily — the  girl,  without  seeming  to  do 
so,  was  trying  to  prevent  him. 

Next  day,  when  Glory  returned  from  Topbury  to  South- 
gate,  Riska  met  her  with  clenched  hands. 

"Now  you've  done  it." 

"Done  what?" 

"Lost  him  for  me.  He's  begun  to  suspect.  He  wants  to 
know  who  was  that  shabby  man  with  you  and  Peter.  Of 
course  I  daren't  tell  him.  He  says  I  look  like  him.  You 
stupid !  And  last  night  I'm  sure  he  was  going  to  have  pro 
posed  to  me. — And  Ocky  isn't  even  your  father." 

It  was  all  too  true;  Bonaparte  Triggers  had  done  with 
Riska.  He  sent  her  a  formal  letter,  breaking  off  every 
thing.  "My  father,"  he  wrote,  "happens  to  know  Lawyer 
Wagstaff,  your  father's  old  employer.  At  first  I  wouldn't 
believe  that  you  were  his  daughter.  I  wouldn't  have 
minded,  anyhow;  I  was  in  love  with  you.  But  you  and 
your  mother  lied  to  me  about  it.  I  could  never  trust  you 
after  that.  The  moment  I  saw  that  man  with  your  cousin 
and  Glory  I  knew  the  truth." 

So  ended  Riska's  first  attempt  to  plunge  from  the  raft. 
She  clambered  back,  a  little  damp,  but  with  her  heart  in 
tact.  Glory  was  blamed  for  the  catastrophe;  in  future  she 
had  to  be  more  careful  in  meeting  Ocky.  Barrington,  after 
a  stormy  interview  with  Jehane  in  which  Peter  was  accused, 
shook  his  head,  "Riska !  Humph !  Poor  kiddy,  I'm  sorry. 
She's  ripe  fruit,  Peter.  Mark  my  words;  if  she  isn't 
plucked,  she'll  fall  to  the  ground." 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 
THE   RACE 

"GET  ready.    Paddle." 

Peter's  oar  gripped  the  water.  The  seven  men  behind 
him  swung  out.  For  a  second  he  raised  his  eyes  from  the 
boat,  searching  the  faces  on  the  barge.  She  wasn't  there — 
Cherry.  The  Faun  Man  had  promised  to  bring  her  up  to 
Oxford  for  the  last  great  race  of  Eights'  Week.  Perhaps 
she  had  refused  to  come.  Perhaps  the  train  was  late.  Per 
haps . 

On  the  roof  of  the  barge  he  could  see  Kay,  with  Harry 
standing  beside  her.  His  mother  and  father,  most  mani 
festly  proud  of  him,  were  there.  Glory — yes,  she  was  wav 
ing.  But  they — all  of  them  together — they  counted  for  so 
little  because  Cherry  was  absent.  It  was  his  great  week. 
He  was  proving  himself  a  man — more  than  a  dreamer. 
Every  night  his  eight  had  made  its  bump.  People  said  that 
it  was  the  stroke-oar  who  had  done  it.  He  so  wanted  her  to 
see  him.  He  was  going  to  stroke  Calvary  to  the  head  of 
the  river.  It  was  the  last  night ;  only  Christ  Church  was  in 
front. 

All  along  the  bank  to  his  right  lay  college  barges,  gay 
and  animated  with  girls  and  flowers.  Behind  still  trees  of 
the  meadows,  beneath  which  cattle  grazed,  spires  and  domes 
soared  dreamily  against  the  deep  horizon. 

The  others  were  working  as  one  man  behind  him.  The 
eight  jumped  forward  as  though  it  were  a  live  thing.  How 
fit  he  felt ! 

Punts  and  canoes  blocked  their  passage. 

"Look  ahead,  sir.    Look  ahead." 

362 


THE    RACE  363 

They  had  to  halt.  From  the  tow-path  men  shouted  en 
couragement,,  "Calvary — up !  Up !" 

They  rang  dinner-bells,  banged  gongs,  twirled  rattles, 
fired  pistols.  It  was  deafening,  maddening. 

Other  eights  passed  them,  shooting  down  to  Iffley  to  the 
lower  stations.  Some  were  crews  they  had  defeated  on 
previous  evenings.  Then  came  Christ  Church,  broad  shoul 
ders  and  tanned  bodies  swinging.  They  stopped  rowing, 
and  rattled  their  oars  in  salute  and  challenge. 

The  red-headed  cox,  glancing  at  the  rivals,  leant  forward 
and  spoke  to  Peter.  "They're  top  o'  their  training.  It'll  be 
a  long  chase.  We'll  catch  'em  by  the  barges." 

Peter  nodded  and  squared  his  mouth  doggedly.  "By  the 
barges,  if  not  earlier.  Anyway,  we'll  catch  'em." 

Would  she  be  there?  Inside  his  head  he  was  trying  to 
picture  her.  How  would  she  be  dressed?  A  year  since 
they  met!  So  long! 

They  came  to  their  station.  Astern  lay  the  other  boats, 
trailed  out  one  behind  the  other,  pointing  their  noses  up 
stream  for  the  start.  He  turned  to  look  ahead;  the  Christ 
Church  crew  were  pulling  off  their  scarfs. 

Hardcastle,  who  was  rowing  at  seven,  leant  forward  and 
touched  him,  "For  God's  sake,  keep  it  long  and  steady." 

A  deep  boom,  muttering  and  ominous.  The  minute-gun 
had  sounded.  Someone  on  the  bank,  with  a  watch  in  his 
hand,  commenced  counting  off  the  seconds.  College-barge 
men  eased  the  eight  out  into  the  river,  maneuvering  with 
poles  to  get  her  prow  at  the  right  angle,  so  no  time  might 
be  lost. 

"Are  you  ready?" 

The  counting  stopped.  Peter  brought  his  slide  forward, 
bracing  his  feet  against  the  stretcher.  A  pause,  still  as 
death.  The  last  gun  sounded. 

"Row,  you  devils.  Pick  it  up.  Six,  you're  late.  Steady 
coming  forward.  Up,  Calvary!  Up!" 

The  blades  whipped  the  water,  the  river  boiled  past  them. 
From  the  bank  came  the  clamor  of  running  feet  and  shout 
ing,  as  if  an  asylum  had  been  freed  for  a  holiday. 


364  THE    RAFT 

Peter  saw  nothing — only  the  red  fiend  of  a  cox,  his  mouth 
wide  open,  screaming  shrill  oaths  of  rebuke  or  encourage 
ment.  He  had  stopped  cursing.  He  was  giving  them  tens. 

Peter  quickened  his  stroke.  From  one  to  ten,  over  and 
over,  the  counting  went  on.  Would  it  never  stop?  He 
ached  in  every  muscle.  Could  he  never  slack  off?  He 
clenched  his  teeth  and  spurted.  The  boat  responded. 

"Back  him  up,"  yelled  the  cox;  "you're  gaining." 

Peter  wondered  whether  they  were;  he  longed  to  turn 
and  see  for  himself. 

"Now,  then,  for  all  you're  worth.  Well  rowed,  Calvary. 
Well  rowed,  indeed.  Stick  to  it." 

Left  to  itself,  his  body  would  have  crumbled.  His  back 
felt  broken.  There  was  a  buzzing  in  his  head.  Something 
stronger  than  will  power — a  corporate  spirit  of  honor, 
which  the  men  behind  him  shared — kept  him  going. 

"Give  her  ten." 

The  cox  was  counting  again.  His  face  was  as  flaming 
as  his  hair  with  excitement ;  he  was  swinging  with  the 
oarsmen,  as  if  the  jerking  of  his  slight  body  could  make 
the  boat  travel  faster. 

"Going  up,  Calvary.    Half  a  length." 

Ha !  The  cox  wasn't  lying  now.  Peter  could  feel  the 
wash  of  the  eight  they  were  pursuing.  They  were  creeping 
up  slowly.  From  the  bank  his  name  was  thundered. 

"Barrington.  Barrington.  Well  rowed,  Barrington. 
Row  like  hell." 

By  jingo,  he  would !  He'd  show  'em !  There  shouldn't 
be  anything  left  of  him.  And  Cherry . 

Everything  was  growing  dark.  Sometimes  the  mist  be 
fore  his  eyes  parted ;  he  caught  glimpses  of  the  flaring  head 
of  the  cox.  Sometimes  he  could  see  nothing,  and  heard 
only  the  endless  shouting,  bidding  him  row  faster,  always 
faster.  Where  were  they?  Had  the  race  only  just  com 
menced?  He  seemed  to  have  been  struggling  for  hours. 
The  dread  grew  up  in  him  that  he  would  never  reach  the 
end.  He  would  collapse.  He .  But  still  he  went  on. 

Women's  voices !    They  must  be  passing  the  barges,  rac- 


THE    RACE  365 

ing  down  the  last  of  the  course.  When  his  sight  cleared,  he 
saw  them — steep  banks  of  women's  faces,  shining  and  nod 
ding,  and  fluttering  into  the  far  distance. 

Christ  Church !  By  Jove,  they  must  be  nearly  on  them. 
He  could  feel  the  turmoil  of  the  beaten  water.  They  were 
rowing  Christ  Church  down. 

"Give  her  ten." 

The  cox  was  counting  hysterically.  Peter  tried  to  pick 
it  up.  He  couldn't.  He  knew  it.  He  was  going  to  pieces. 
His  stroke  was  flagging.  And  then .  What  was  that? 

"Peter.    Peter.     Peter." 

As  the  eight  fled  by  he  heard  it — a  girl's  voice  frantically 
urging  him.  And  a  man's — he  heard  that,  too.  "Go  it, 
Peter.  Well  rowed,  old  top." 

Only  the  Faun  Man  would  have  called  him  old  top.  She 
was  there  to  see  him!  His  last  strength  returned.  He 
pulled  himself  together  and  swung  out.  The  oars  behind 
him  were  getting  in  late ;  he  could  feel  the  boat  dragging. 
It  didn't  matter;  he'd  take  her  to  the  head  of  the  river,  if 
he  were  the  only  man  left  rowing. 

Bedlam  was  all  about  him.  The  cox  bent  forward, 
shrieking  at  him,  trying  to  make  .himself  heard  above  the 
racket.  He  caught  what  he  said :  "Only  a  foot  now." 

What  was  happening?  A  jerk!  The  boat  paused  and 
shuddered.  It  had  touched  something.  Then  again  it 
started  forward.  Someone  was  telling  him  to  stop.  He 
wouldn't  stop ;  they'd  wanted  him  to  go  on  before.  He  was 
going  to  make  sure.  By  his  side  he  saw  something  like  a 
broken  bird,  trailing  in  the  water.  Then  he  saw  eight  men, 
fallen  forward,  spent  and  panting.  People  were  cheering. 
On  the  bank  they  were  dancing.  The  cox  laid  his  hands 
on  his  oar  to  stay  him.  He  was  grinning  from  ear  to  ear. 
"You  silly  devil !  Leave  off !" 

It  dawned  on  him.  They'd  made  their  bump — gone  ahead 
of  the  river.  And  she'd  been  there  to  watch  him ! 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 
A  NIGHT  OF  IT 

THE  college  and  its  guests  were  assembled.  Peter  and 
his  eight,  with  members  of  the  crews  they  had  defeated, 
were  seated  at  the  high  table.  The  bump-supper  was  in 
progress.  Scarcely  anyone  was  absolutely  sober.  For  the 
first  time  in  history  Calvary  had  gone  up  seven  places  and 
had  finished  head  of  the  river. 

Stoop-shouldered  dons,  men  who  held  themselves  aloof 
with  a  scholar's  shyness,  broke  their  rule  to-night  and  hob 
nobbed  with  undergraduates.  The  dim  old  college  hall  was- 
uproarious  with  strong  laughter  and  bass  voices.  The  ani 
mal  splendor  of  youth,  the  rage  of  life,  as  seen  that  after 
noon  on  the  river,  had  lured  them  away  from  cramped 
texts  and  grievous  truths  contained  in  books — had  opened 
their  eyes  to  a  more  vigorous  and  primitive  conception  of 
living. 

A  German  Rhodes  scholar,  seated  next  to  the  college 
chaplain,  was  trying  to  teach  him  that  scandalous  libel 
against  all  parsons,  The  Ballad  of  The  Parson's  Cow.  The 
chaplain,  who  on  more  formal  occasions  would  have  felt 
insulted,  was  doing  his  eager  best  to  pick  up  the  words  and 
tune.  He  kept  assuring  the  German  Rhodes  scholar  of  his 
immense  gratitude.  He  compared  The  Ballad  of  The  Par 
son's  Cow  to  Piers  the  Ploughman,  and  affected  to  regard 
it  as  a  literary  pearl  of  great  price. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance,  behind  clouds  of  tobacco 
smoke,  Harry  was  singing  his  latest.  Dons  said  "Shish !" 
gazing  round  with  half-hearted  severity.  Nobody  paid 
them  much  attention.  Topsy-turvydom  ruled ;  discipline 
was  at  an  end.  Behind  the  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  the 

366 


A   NIGHT   OF   IT  367 

irrepressible  voice  sang  on ;  other  voices  swelled  the  volume, 
taking  up  the  chorus : 

"Ever  been  born  on  a  Friday? 
What,  never  been  born  on  a  Friday ! 
What,   never  been  born  on  a  Friday  yet, 
When  your  mother  wasn't  at  home !" 

Even  Professor  Benares  Usk,  the  greatest  Homeric 
scholar  in  Europe,  let  himself  go  under  the  influence  of 
wine.  His  bald  egg-shaped  head  perspired  profusely.  "I 
don't  mind  telling  you,"  he  kept  saying.  He  was  one  of 
those  self-important  pedants  who  never  minded  telling 
anybody.  He  had  made  a  corner  in  one  fragment  of  hu 
man  knowledge ;  consequently  the  things  which  he  didn't 
mind  telling  people  would  fill  a  library.  Just  at  present 
he  was  explaining  to  Roy  Hardcastle,  with  a  sugar  bowl 
for  a  galley  and  forks  for  oars,  the  technique  of  Greek 
rowing  as  revealed  in  Homer.  Hardcastle  repeatedly  broke 
in  on  him  with  skittish  references  to  Olympian  immoralities. 
He  propounded  the  theory  to  the  Professor  that  the  Iliad, 
in  its  day,  had  been  no  more  than  a  bad  boy's  book  of 
frisky  stories.  The  Professor  was  sufficiently  not  himself 
to  contest  the  theory  warmly. 

Flushed  faces,  eager  eyes,  gusty  laughter !  From  painted 
canvases,  on  paneled  walls,  grim  founders  looked  down  on 
bacchanalia,  some  of  them  sourly,  others  indifferently,  and 
yet  others  with  envy  because,  since  becoming  angels,  they 
could  no  longer  enjoy  a  glass  of  port. 

The  air  was  getting  stifling.  Speeches  were  commencing. 
The  grave  old  warden  was  turning  to  Peter,  and  addressing 
him.  Hardly  a  word  was  audible  above  the  cheers.  Hard 
castle,  as  captain  of  the  rowing,  rose  to  reply. 

Outside,  behind  stained-glass  windows,  the  cool  dusk  of 
summer  drifted  noiselessly.  Creepers  rustled  against  crum 
bling  masonry.  The  faint  sweet  smell  of  bean  fields,  far- 
blown  from  wide  hillsides,  met  the  wistful  fragrance  of 
imprisoned  rose-gardens;  they  wandered  together  like 
ghostly  lovers  through  the  shadowy  quiet  of  the  quads. 


368  THE    RAFT 

Peter  wanted  to  be  out  there — wanted  to  go  to  her.  For 
the  first  time  in  a  year  he  had  seen  her.  Strange  how  little 
he  had  forgotten !  He  half -closed  his  eyes,  picturing  and 
remembering:  her  nun-like  trick  of  carrying  her  hands 
against  her  breast ;  the  way  her  voice  slurred ;  her  meek 
appearance  of  gay  piety,  which  the  red  defiance  of  her 
mouth  and  the  challenge  of  her  eyes  denied.  She  was  a 
girl-woman,  borrowing  the  attitudes  of  sophistication,  yet 
exquisitely  young  and  poignantly  ignorant  of  the  world. 

He  hadn't  been  able  to  say  much  to  her — only,  "I  heard 
you,  Cherry" ;  to  which  she,  shy  in  the  presence  of  his  par 
ents,  had  replied,  "I'm  glad.  I  was  afraid — so  afraid  that 
you  wouldn't  win  the  race." 

They  had  walked  up  through  the  meadows,  all  of  them 
together ;  he,  with  his  mother  and  Kay  on  either  side ;  she, 
between  his  father  and  the  Faun  Man.  He  nad  heard  her 
tripping  footsteps  following  behind.  At  the  college-gate  he 
had  said,  "I'll  see  you  again";  and  she,  "Perhaps."  No 
more  than  that.  He  had  not  dared  to  appoint  a  place  of 
meeting;  his  parents  didn't  know — they  wouldn't  under 
stand.  Then  he  had  had  to  run  off  to  change  for  dinner. 

She  might  be  leaving  early  to-morrow.  Did  she  care  for 
him  ?  She  had  seemed  more  sorry  for  him,  more  as  though 
she  were  trying  to  be  kind  to  him  than  in  love  with  him. 
She  was  non-committal,  elusive.  But  she  was  in  Oxford 
to-night.  Where,  and  with  whom? 

All  down  the  long  hall  they  were  pushing  back  their 
chairs,  struggling  up  from  tables  and  tumbling  out  into  the 
cool  twilight.  Men  were  hurrying  to  their  rooms  to  put  on 
their  oldest  clothes;  there  was  going  to  be  a  "rag."  A 
piano  struck  up;  then  ceased  suddenly.  A  groping  of  feet 
in  the  darkness  of  a  wooden  staircase !  From  one  of  the 
doorways  a  jostling,  shouting  crowd  emerged.  The  piano 
was  set  down  in  the  open  quad ;  a  chair  was  tossed  out  of 
a  window.  Harry  took  his  seat  at  the  key-board  and  com 
menced  jingling  over  the  air  of,  "What,  never  been  born 
on  a  Friday  yet,  when  your  mother  wasn't  at  home !" 

Several  of  the  crew  seized  Peter  and  hoisted  him  on  to 


A   NIGHT   OF    IT  369 

the  top  of  the  piano.  He  stood  there  an  unwilling  statue  on 
a  burlesque  pedestal.  They  joined  hands  and  danced  about 
him  in  a  circle.  Then  came  the  old  wander-song  of  his 
childhood,  bringing  thoughts  of  her  and  of  the  Happy  Cot 
tage,  "I've  been  shipwrecked  off  Patagonia."  Harry 
shouldn't  have  played  that. 

A  new  diversion !  They  took  him  by  the  arms  and  ran 
him  away :  others  followed,  staggering  under  the  weight 
of  the  piano.  Through  a  passage  a  red  glow  grew  up.  In 
a  neighboring  quad  a  bon-fire  had  been  kindled.  It  wasn't 
high  enough,  broad  enough,  big  enough — wasn't  worthy  of 
the  occasion.  From  windows,  two  and  three  stories  up, 
men  leant  out  and  hurled  down  furniture.  Very  often  it 
wasn't  their  furniture.  Who  cared  ?  The  sky  rained  desks, 
and  chairs,  and  tables. 

Singing  and  shouting  everywhere !  An  impromptu  lov 
ing-cup  was  drunk,  composed  of  anything  alcoholic  that 
came  handy. 

"Barrington  !     Hardcastle !     Barrington !" 

He  and  Hardcastle  had  to  make  speeches  to  one  another. 

A  rocket  soared  into  the  night  and  burst  among  the  stars. 
A  rocket  from  a  neighboring  college  answered  the  chal 
lenge.  Soon  the  sky  became  a  target  against  which  Oxford 
aimed  burning  arrows. 

A  dispute  arose  as  to  the  details  of  the  last  great  race. 
Hardcastle  insisted  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
row  it  all  afresh.  With  grave  solemnity  the  crewmen,  as 
though  they  were  taking  their  places  in  an  eight,  were  made 
to  seat  themselves  in  a  line  along  the  path.  A  rival  crew, 
selected  from  among  the  defeated  oarsmen  of  other  col 
leges,  was  arranged  ahead  of  them.  Peter  took  his  place 
at  stroke  in  this  sham  rehearsal  of  an  event  accomplished. 
A  pistol  was  fired ;  with  empty  hands,  the  eightsmen  went 
through  all  the  motions  of  rowing,  to  an  accompaniment  of 
yells  of  encouragement. 

It  must  be  nearly  twelve — the  out-of-college  men  and 
guests  were  departing.  Peter  wished  he  could  follow  them. 
Good-byes  were  being  said  with  exaggerated  fervor,  as  if 


370  THE    RAFT 

long  journeys  were  in  prospect.  The  last  of  them  had 
seized  his  gown  and  run.  The  porter  was  locking  the  gate 
of  the  lodge.  Big  Tom  boomed  the  hour.  The  college  was 
closed ;  there  would  be  no  more  knocking  in  or  out  until 
to-morrow.  And  to-morrow  she  might  be  gone. 

Peter   caught    Harry   by   the    arm   and   led   him   aside. 
"Where's  she  staying?" 
,    "Who?" 

"Cherry,  of  course." 

Harry  laughed  slyly.  "Cherry,  of  course!  Who  else? 
Staying!  Lorie's  taken  a  room  for  her  in  Bath  Place. 
You  know — between  Holywell  and  Hell  Passage." 

"Which  room?" 

Harry  became  serious.  "Look  here,  old  chap,  what  d'you 
want  to  know  for  ?" 

"Because  I'm  going  to  her." 

"Oh,  are  you  ?" 

"Yes,  to-night.  You  know  what  she  is — may  be  gone 
before  breakfast." 

"Here,  you'd  better  come  to  bed." 

As  they  strolled  across  quad  to  Peter's  room,  Harry 
asked  him,  "Whatever  put  such  a  mad  scheme  into  your 
head?  You  can't  get  out  of  college — the  gate's  shut.  If 
you  did  and  got  caught,  you'd  be  sent  down  for  a  certainty." 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  them,  Peter  didn't  sit 
down — he  didn't  start  to  undress.  He  went  to  the  win 
dow,  threw  it  open  and  leant  out.  "I'm  going,  Harry,  and 
I  shan't  get  caught,  either.  You've  got  to  help.  It's  a 
twenty-foot  drop.  If  I  knot  my  sheets  together  they'll  be 
long  enough.  You  wait  here  till  I  come  back  and  haul  me 
up." 

Harry  didn't  approve  of  it ;  but  he  was  the  mouth-organ 
boy  and  the  adventure  was  in  keeping  with  the  night.  The 
rope  of  sheets  was  flung  out.  For  a  moment  Peter  bal 
anced  on  the  sill;  then  he  slipped  down,  hand-over-hand, 
into  the  blackness. 

"All  right.'' 

The  rope  was  withdrawn. 


A   NIGHT   OF    IT  371 

The  street  was  intensely  quiet — empty  of  all  sound. 
Houses  slept.  Not  a  shadow  stirred.  A  cool  breeze  blew 
upon  his  forehead.  He  had  the  world  to  himself.  He  felt 
immensely  young  and  exultant. 

He  began  to  run  stealthily  and  on  tiptoe,  keeping  close 
to  the  wall.  There  was  never  any  telling — someone  might 
come  round  a  corner  suddenly  and  take  him  unawares. 

As  he  passed  Professor  Usk's  house,  he  thought  for  a 
moment  of  Glory.  In  one  of  those  prim  rooms  she  was 
lying  safe  in  bed — she  and  Riska.  He'd  seen  Riska  laugh 
ing  with  Hardcastle  on  the  barge.  Who  the  dickens  had 
introduced  her?  She  was  quite  capable  of  having  intro 
duced  herself.  Then  he  forgot  everything  and  everyone 
but  Cherry  and  the  purpose  of  his  errand. 

He  came  out  on  to  High  Street,  flowing  in  a  slow  curve 
past  churches  and  ancient  doorways.  As  he  went  by  All 
Souls  he  had  the  sense  of  still  gardens  and  cool  turf,  lying 
steeped  in  moonlight.  He  wanted  to  laugh,  wanted  to 
shout  to  the  silent  city  that  he  would  soon  be  talking  with 
her. 

He  turned  down  by  Hell  Passage  and  dived  under  an 
archway  into  a  little  court,  where  a  lamp  smoldered  in  an 
iron  bracket  and  echoes  played  hide-and-seek  behind  his 
footsteps.  There  was  an  uncared  for  garden.  In  one 
corner  stood  a  public  house,  with  all  the  lights  extinguished. 
Along  one  side,  hugging  the  wall  of  a  low-roofed  house, 
ran  the  narrow  path.  He  stepped  back  and  looked  up  at 
the  windows ;  that  must  be  hers  to  the  left. 

He  whispered  her  name,  "Cherry.     Cherry." 

Was  she  awake  ?  He  fancied  that  he  heard  her  stir.  He 
picked  up  some  earth  and  threw  it  against  the  panes.  He 
had  startled  her;  something  creaked,  as  though  she  sat  up 
sharply. 

"Don't  be  frightened.  It's  Peter,"  he  called  beneath  his 
breath. 

She  was  coming.  Soon  she  would  look  out.  He  saw 
her,  leaning  down  on  him,  white  clad,  with  her  dark  hair 
falling  all  about  her  face. 


372  THE    RAFT 

"I  couldn't  stop  away  any  longer,  Cherry.  I  had  to  come 
to  you.  I  want  you  to  promise  that  you'll  be  here  to-mor 
row.  When  I  asked  you  before  you  only  said,  'Perhaps.' 
Only  perhaps,  Cherry,  after  a  year  of  waiting!  Promise 
me,  'Yes.'  " 

Was  she  laughing?  Was  she  angry?  He  was  whispering 
to  her  again.  "They'd  locked  all  the  doors.  I  was  afraid 
that  I'd  never  get  out.  I  climbed  down,  when  everyone  was 
in  bed.  I  had  to  come  to  you." 

"Oh,  Peter,  Peter !"  She  wasn't  cross  with  him.  She 
was  laughing.  "You're  so  persistent.  It  took  you  to  do 
that." 

Silence  again. 

"But  promise,"  he  urged.  He  wished  that  he  might  see 
her  clearly.  They  had  called  her  Cherry  because  her  lips 
were  red.  "But  promise.  Won't  you  say  'Yes'  ?" 

Her  answer  came  so  that  he  could  scarcely  hear  it.  "If 
I  promise,  will  you  go  now?" 

He  nodded  like  a  child,  to  give  emphasis. 

"Then  yes — but  only  if  you  go  now  at  once." 

She  waited  to  see  him  start.  He  turned  away  reluctantly. 
As  he  entered  the  shadow  of  the  archway  he  thought  she 
kissed  her  hand. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 
ON   THE    RIVER 

BUT  had  she?  Had  she  kissed  her  hand?  And,  if  she 
had,  did  it  mean  anything? 

Harry,  having  hauled  him  back  into  college,  had  crept 
away  sleepily,  thankful  that  his  watch  was  ended.  Peter 
sat  on  by  the  open  window,  imagining  and  questioning. 
The  wide  white  moon  rode  quietly  at  anchor;  dusk-gray 
roofs  were  vague  as  an  ocean  bed.  Not  a  sound.  Nothing 
stirred. 

But  yes.  Behind  stone  walls  of  a  college  garden  a  recluse 
nightingale  commenced  to  warble :  little  notes  at  first,  as 
though  a  child  threw  back  the  counterpane  of  darkness 
and  muttered  to  itself ;  then  a  cry — a  full,  clear  stream  of 
song  that  fell  like  silver  showered  through  the  tree-tops. 
Peter  closed  his  eyes ;  imprisoned  love  was  speaking  with 
its  throat  outstretched.  In  the  shadows  a  heart  was  pour 
ing  forth  its  yearning;  the  world  slept.  Was  love  always 
like  that — a  bird  in  a  hidden  garden,  with  none  to  listen, 
setting  dreams  to  music? 

A  sash  was  raised.  It  was  across  the  street  and  further 
down.  The  sound  came  from  the  Professor's  house.  It 
might  be  Glory.  Odd,  if  they  two  were  keeping  watch  to 
gether!  Should  he  call  to  her?  If  he  remembered,  he 
would  question  her  to-morrow.  His  eyes  grew  dusty;  he 
folded  his  arms  beneath  his  head. 

Someone  entered.  Morning!  He  was  drenched  with 
sunlight.  A  voice  addressed  him  discreetly,  apologetically, 
"Overdoin'  it  a  bit  last  night  ?  Shall  I  pour  out  your  bath, 
sir?  It'll  pull  you  together." 

Peter  laughed  gaily,  then  a  little  shamefully  when  he 

373 


374  THE    RAFT 

realized  what  the  scout  had  meant.  "I'm  having  brekker 
out.  My  bath — no,  it  doesn't  matter." 

Picking  up  a  towel,  he  ran  down  to  the  barges  through 
the  glistening  meadows.  What  a  splendid  world,  dazzling 
and  dew-wet !  Stripping,  he  dived  into  the  river.  Shaking 
his  head  like  a  dog  as  he  rose  to  the  surface,  he  drifted 
down  stream,  turned,  fought  his  way  back  and  climbed  out 
glowing.  A  day  with  her!  She  had  promised. 

He  had  to  breakfast  with  the  Professor — all  his  family 

were  to  be  there;  and,  after  that .  His  father  might 

have  plans.  It  would  be  ages  before  he  could  be  alone  with 
her.  The  clocks  of  the  city  were  striking  eight — big  and 
little  voices  together.  Could  he  manage  it?  There  was 
time  for  just  a  word. 

He  was  panting  when  he  came  to  Hell  Passage  and  en 
tered  the  courtyard.  Her  window  was  wide.  He  called 
to  her.  She  didn't  answer.  He  plucked  a  rose  and  tossed 
it  in  the  air;  it  landed  on  her  window-ledge.  When  she 
wakened  she  might  find  it  and  guess  that  he  had  been 
there. 

Professor  Usk  was  in  his  moral  mood  that  morning.  "A 
great  pity — a  great  pity  that  young  Oxford  drinks  to  ex 
cess."  He  was  trying  to  impress  his  wife  with  his  own 
extreme  temperance. 

Hardcastle  was  a  guest.  Riska  was  seated  next  to  him ; 
beneath  the  surface  of  what  others  were  saying,  they  car 
ried  on  a  softly  spoken  conversation,  private  to  themselves. 
Riska's  piquant  face  was  alive  with  interest.  Every  now 
and  then  she  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands,  shaking  her 
head  incredulously,  stooping  her  shoulders  and  glancing 
sideways  at  Hardcastle.  They  might  have  been  old  friends. 
Her  color  came  and  went  when  she  found  herself  ob 
served;  behind  her  apparent  artlessness  there  lay  a  calm 
and  determined  self-possession. 

Peter  took  his  place  between  Kay  and  his  mother. 
"Happy  Peterkins,"  Kay  whispered;  "your  face  is — is  a 
lamp."  She  squeezed  his  hand. 

He  was  silent  and  excited,  impatient  for  the  next  two 


ON   THE   RIVER  375 

hours  to  end.  Sometimes  his  thoughts  were  in  the  sun- 
swept  street,  hurrying  to  a  little  courtyard,  where  a  window 
stood  wide  and  the  echoes  of  Oxford  ran  together.  Some 
times  his  attention  was  caught  by  a  remark,  as  when  the 
Professor  turned  to  his  wife,  who  had  just  sat  down,  and 

said,  "Oh,  Agnes,  while  you're  up "  and  she  replied, 

"But,  Benares,  I'm  not  up." 

His  mother  watched  him,  noticing  the  gladness  in  his 
eyes.  She  wondered  what  it  meant.  Glory,  lifting  her  face 
to  his,  gazed  at  him  furtively  from  beneath  her  lashes. 

They  had  gone  upstairs  to  the  room  from  which  Jehane 
had  looked  down  on  Barrington.  Peter  had  said,  "There 
was  a  nightingale  singing.  Did.  any  of  you  hear  it  ?"  and 
Glory  was  about  to  answer,  when  the  prancing  of  hoofs 
drew  them  crowding  to  the  window — it  was  a  coach  setting 
out  for  London.  On  the  box  sat  the  Faun  Man,  reining  in 
and  steadying  the  chestnut  four-in-hand.  The  roof  was  a 
garden — river-hats  and  girls'  faces;  every  seat  was  taken. 
As  they  came  clattering  up  the  cobbled  street,  the  horn  was 
blowing  merrily.  Peter  took  one  glance,  and  was  racing 
down  the  stairs.  The  watchers  at  the  window  saw  him 
dash  out,  sprint  hatless  to  the  corner  and  vanish. 

The  Faun  Man  pulled  up.  "Hulloa,  Peter!  Searched 
for  you  all  over  college.  They  said  you'd  gone  out  to 
brekker.  Want  to  come  with  us?  We'll  find  room  for 
you." 

Peter  wasn't  looking  at  the  Faun  Man,  nor  at  Harry,  who 
sat  behind  him.  He  wasn't  looking  at  the  golden  woman, 
who  was  trying  to  catch  his  attention.  He  was  looking  at 
Cherry.  Her  place  was  on  the  box,  to  the  right  of  the 
Faun  Man.  She  returned  his  gaze  with  laughter  at  first ; 
then,  because  he  didn't  laugh  back,  she  turned  away  her 
head.  And  Peter — he  was  puzzled  and  hurt.  Why  was 
she  escaping?  She  had  promised.  And  why,  when  she 
was  escaping,  did  she  wear  his  rose  against  her  breast? 

"Going  to  London!"  he  said  slowly.  "No,  I  can't  join 
you." 

He  swung  round  and  was  walking  away.     Harry  called 


376  THE    RAFT 

after  him,  "We're  not  going  to  London,  you  chump.  We're 
only  going  as  far  as  High  Wycombe  to  look  at  a  house. 
Climb  aboard,  and  buck  up." 

The  golden  woman  added  her  persuasion.  "For  my  sake, 
Peter.  It's  Tree-Tops — the  house  we're  going  to  look  at. 
Sounds  almost  as  fine  as  the  Happy  Cottage,  doesn't  it? 
Lorie's  going  to  live  there,  perhaps." 

Harry  thought  he  had  spotted  the  trouble.  "We'll  be  in 
Oxford  before  nightfall — catch  a  train  back." 

Peter  answered  shortly.  "Sorry.  I  can't.  I've  got  my 
people  with  me." 

He  waved  his  hand  and  stepped  from  the  road  to  the 
pavement. 

Cherry  had  said  nothing.  She  let  her  clear  eyes  rest  on 
him.  The  horses  were  getting  restive  with  standing  and 
the  passengers  impatient.  The  Faun  Man  shook  out  his 
whip ;  the  leaders  jumped  forward.  "Well,  if  you  can't,  you 
can't,"  he  said. 

Suddenly  Cherry  spoke.  "I'm  not  going.  Please  let 
me  down." 

The  Faun  Man  whistled.  "So  that's  the  way  the  wind's 
blowing !" 

The  ladder  was  brought  out.  Peter  helped  her  to  de 
scend. 

"Good-bye  and  good  1uck." 

The  horn  sounded.  As  the  coach  rolled  on  its  way,  every 
head  was  turned,  looking  back.  It  grew  dim  in  the  dust  of 
its  journey.  They  were  left  alone  in  the  sharp  sunlight, 
embarrassed  in  each  other's  presence. 

It  was  she  who  spoke  first,  in  a  little  caressing  voice 
which  mocked  its  own  sincerity.  "That  wasn't  nice  of  me. 

And  yet  I  didn't  intend .  I  didn't  really,  Peter — not  at 

first.  I  thought — we  all  thought  you'd  be  one  of  the  party. 
And  then — because  I  wanted  to  go,  I  forgot  all  about  you. 
D'you  forgive  me?" 

"If  you  wanted  to  go,  I'm ." 

She  broke  in  on  him.     "There,  instead  of  making  things 


ON    THE    RIVER  377 

better,  I've  made  them  worse.  I  shouldn't  have  come  to 
Oxford — I've  hurt  you." 

Shouldn't  have  come  to  Oxford !  She  was  threatening  to 
go  out  of  his  life  again,  just  when  he'd  refound  her. 
"Cherry,"  he  said,  "I'm  willing  to  be  hurt  by  you  every  day, 
if  only  I  may  see  you.  Don't  you  remember?  Can't  you 
understand?  I'd  rather  be  hurt  by  you  than  loved  by  any 
other  woman  in  the  world." 

"I  know  that." 

In  silence  they  walked  back  to  the  Professor's  house.  At 
the  corner  of  the  street,  before  they  came  into  view,  he 
asked,  "D'you  mind  spending  the  morning  with  my  people? 
They're  returning  to  London  this  afternoon ;  then  we  can  be 
by  ourselves." 

The  faces  were  still  at  the  window,  looking  out;  he  was 
very  conscious  of  the  curiosity  he  aroused.  When  he  had 
climbed  the  stairs  and  entered  the  room,  he  explained,  as 
though  it  were  the  most  natural  of  happenings,  "I've 
brought  Cherry  with  me." 

His  father  relieved  the  awkwardness  by  asking,  "What 
are  we  going  to  do?" 

"Why  not  the  river?"  Hardcastle  suggested. 

They  set  out  in  two  punts  from  the  barges.  The  Profes 
sor  and  his  wife  had  excused  themselves,  saying  that  they 
had  to  work.  Hardcastle  took  charge  of  Glory  and  Riska ; 
Peter  of  the  rest.  They  turned  up  the  Cherwell,  past  the 
Botanical  Gardens,  through  Mesopotamia,  coming  at  last 
to  Parsons'  Pleasure.  The  sound  of  bathers  on  the  other 
side  of  the  island  warned  them.  The  ladies  got  out,  while 
the  men  drew  the  punts  across  the  rollers,  taking  them 
round  to  the  farther  landing.  Barrington  accompanied  Nan 
by  the  footpath. 

Directly  they  were  alone  she  turned  to  him,  "Is  there 
anything  between  them?" 

"Between  who?" 

"That  girl  and  Peter  ?" 

Her  husband  laughed  and  held  her  arm  more  firmly, 
"Between  her  and  Peter!  What  an  idea!  Match-maker!" 


378  THE    RAFT 

Nan  leant  against  him,  as  if  seeking  his  protection. 
"Match-maker?  Not  that.  I  dread  it.  I  want  to  keep 
them  with  us,  Kay  and  Peter,  always — always." 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes.  He  remembered ;  once  before 
in  this  place  he  had  seen  her  like  that.  "Have  you  for 
gotten?"  he  said.  "It  was  here  that  it  all  began — every 
thing  between  us.  It  was  after  we  three  had  met — a  rainy 
day,  with  the  sun  coming  out.  I  left  you  to  take  the  punt 
round  the  island,  and  Jehane  said  something  behind  my 
back — something  that  brought  tears.  It  was  when  I  saw 
you  crying,  Pepperminta,  that  I  loved  you." 

She  uttered  the  wonderfully  obvious,  linking  up  his 
memory  with  the  present.  "We  little  thought  of  Peter 
then." 

By  the  Parks  the  river  was  dense  with  row-boats,  punts 
and  Canaders.  Girls  lay  back  on  cushions  under  sunshades 
— sweethearts  and  sisters.  Men,  in  college  colors  and  flan 
nels,  shouted  to  one  another,  "Look  ahead,  sir."  Here  and 
there  a  Blue  showed  up  or  a  Leander,  occasioning  respect 
and  whispered  explanations.  The  great  men  of  the  under 
graduate  world  were  pointed  out.  Peter  was  recognized 
as  the  stroke-oar  of  Calvary.  He  didn't  notice  the  heads 
that  were  turned — didn't  care.  His  eyes  rested  on  Cherry 
as  often  as  they  dared.  Before  his  parents  she  treated  him 
casually.  There  were  times  when  he  spoke  to  her  and  she 
paid  him  no  attention.  He  was  unhappy — did  she  dislike 
him?  Then,  as  though  she  felt  that  she  was  overdoing  it, 
a  secret  flash  would  pass  between  them  and  his  fears  were 
quieted. 

"Don't  forget,"  his  father  reminded  him;  "we  leave  for 
London  this  afternoon." 

Hardcastle,  with  his  lighter  burden,  was  pushing  on 
ahead.  Peter  looked  at  his  watch,  "It's  almost  one  now. 

And  I  don't  like  to ."  He  stooped  to  whisper  to  his 

father ;  then  straightened  up.  "Cherry  knows  why.  I  don't 
like  to  let  Hardcastle  out  of  my  sight — not  with  Riska.  He 

isn't  the  sort  of  man .  We'll  have  to  follow.  If  I 

can't  punt  you  back,  you  can  lunch  at  the  inn  at  Marston 


ON   THE    RIVER  379 

Ferry  and  catch  a  tram.  That'll  get  you  to  the  station  in 
time." 

To  Nan  that  day  was  like  the  repetition  of  an  old  story. 
Once  before — how  long  ago  was  it? — once  before  she  had 
drifted  up  this  quiet  stream,  between  gnarled  trees  and 
whispering  rushes,  to  the  gray  inn  where  a  crisis  in  her  life 
had  threatened.  She  recalled  Jehane,  dark  and  tragic,  with 
trailing  hands.  She  could  see  Billy,  gay  and  careless. 
Peter  was  like  him,  and  Kay  was  very  much  what  she  had 
been  then. — Her  eyes  fell  on  Cherry;  she  examined  her 
slightness,  the  frailty  of  her  throat,  her  astonishing  gray 
eyes  looking  out  of  a  face  of  pallor,  the  delicate  mist  of 
hair  sweeping  across  the  whiteness  of  her  forehead.  Not 
the  girl  for  Peter !  There  wasn't  a  girl  good  enough.  And 
then  she  tried  to  believe  that  she  was  foolish.  It  hadn't 
happened  to  him  yet — not  yet. 

And  the  parting — it  was  the  same  as  long  ago.  Every 
thing  was  repeating  itself.  She  and  Kay  and  Billy  stepped 
aboard  the  ferry.  At  the  last  moment  Glory  said  she  would 
accompany  them.  The  man  pulled  on  the  rope ;  the  ferry 
lumbered  out  into  the  stream.  Peter  and  the  girl,  and 
Hardcastle  and  Riska  were  waving  to  them  from  the  bank. 
Nan  had  never  thought  that  she  could  feel  so  cruel  toward 
anybody.  As  she  crossed  the  meadows  she  looked  back. 
Peter  and  the  girl,  pigmy  figures  now,  were  still  waving. 
Jehane  and  Billy  had  waved  to  her  like  that,  standing  near 
together.  The  old  pang!  And  then  she  looked  at  Glory, 
walking  quietly  with  her  head  bent,  never  turning.  In  a 
flash  little  memories,  trifles  in  themselves,  sprang  up  and 
became  significant,  each  one  pointing  in  the  same  direction. 
She  stole  forward  and  took  Glory's  hand. 

Hardcastle  and  Riska  had  vanished ;  their  punt  was  gone 
from  the  landing.  Upstream  the  river  was  lost  to  view  in 
a  slow  bend.  No  one  was  in  sight.  An  atmosphere  of 
secrecy  had  settled  down.  From  arbors  of  the  inn  and 
tufted  places  along  the  banks  came  the  indistinct  murmur 
of  voices.  The  country  looked  uninhabited,  stretching  away 
for  miles  in  squares  and  triangles  of  meadows,  each  one 


38o  THE    RAFT 

different  in  coloring  from  the  next.  Through  the  green 
panorama  of  trees  and  hedges  the  winding  of  the  river  was 
traceable  by  the  flowered  freshness  that  it  left.  Overhead, 
casting  fantastic  shadows,  drifted  white  unwieldy  clouds. 

Peter  helped  her  in,  arranged  the  cushions  for  her  and 
pushed  off  from  the  bank.  He  had  expected  to  say  so  much 
to  her  to-day;  now  the  silence  was  more  happy.  The  day 
was  running  out;  the  veiled  radiance  of  a  summer's  even 
ing  crept  across  the  landscape.  A  little  breeze  sprang  up, 
blew  through  his  hair  and  stooped  the  reeds  to  the  water's 
surface.  She  lay  curled  up  and  contented,  humming  to  her 
self ;  he  could  just  hear  her  voice  above  the  splash  of  his 
pole  and  the  lapping  of  the  river.  Sometimes  she  would 
raise  her  eyes  and  smile  down  the  distance  of  the  punt  that 
separated  them.  When  he  wasn't  looking  she  gazed  more 
intently  at  his  tall,  flanneled  figure,  noticing  his  tanned  arms, 
with  the  sleeves  rolled  back,  and  the  upright  litheness  of  his 
body.  Did  his  eyes  catch  hers  unexpectedly,  she  veiled 
them  in  inscrutable  innocence.  The  waterway  was  narrow 
ing,  becoming  choked  with  weeds  and  bulrushes. 

"Your  mother,"  he  stopped  punting  and  turned  at  the 
sound  of  her  high,  clear  voice ;  "your  mother  didn't  like  me. 
You  may  tell  her  that  she  needn't  be  frightened." 

What  did  she  mean?  She  spoke  gently,  without  resent 
ment.  "Not  like  you,  little  Cherry !  No  one  could 
help ." 

"Oh,  yes.  She  didn't  like  me."  She  raised  herself  on 
her  elbow.  "And  she  was  right.  Won't  you  please  stop 
caring  for  me;  then  we  can  be  friends.  She  saw  what  I 
told  you  from  the  first :  that  I'm  not  your  sort — quite  dif 
ferent,  Peter." 

He  swung  the  nose  of  the  punt  round,  so  that  it  crunched 
into  a  tall,  green  wilderness  that  sprang  up  and  closed  be 
hind  their  passage.  He  laid  aside  the  pole  and  looked  down 
the  length  of  their  refuge,  regarding  her  intently. 

"Stop  caring  for  you !"  He  laughed  shortly.  "As  though 
I  could — the  matter's  out  of  my  hands.  I  never  had  a 
chance  not  to  care  for  you.  If  I  didn't  believe  that  a  day 


ON    THE    RIVER  381 

was  coming  when — when  you'd  be  kinder  to  me,  Cherry,  I'd 
not  want  to  go  any  further — I  mean  with  living.  I'm  not 
good  at  saying  things  in  words ;  you're  everything  to  me." 

She  avoided  his  glance,  turning  her  head  away  so  that 
he  watched  her  side-face.  She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  with 
concentrated  vehemence.  "It's  terrible  to  feel  like  that. 
People  are  sure  to  disappoint  you.  You've  no  right  to 
allow  yourself  to  depend  on  someone  else  for  all  your  hap 
piness." 

"But  if  I  don't  mind?    If  I'm  willing  to  take  my  chance?" 

She  lifted  up  her  face  appealingly.  "Then  it  isn't  fair 
to  me,  Peter.  You  force  me  to  become  responsible.  It 
isn't  that  I  don't  like  you.  I  admire  you;  that  isn't  love. 
You  don't  know  your  own  mind  yet;  there  are  heaps  and 
heaps  of  better  girls. — And  then,  there's  Lorie.  I  tell  you, 
Peter,  I'm  not  your  sort — please,  please  stop  caring  for 
me." 

The  gladness  died  in  him.  It  was  as  though  the  lamps 
behind  his  eyes  had  guttered  out.  His  voice  trembled.  His 
face  had  grown  lean  and  sad.  "Don't  say  that,  Cherry — 
it  keeps  us  separate.  You  don't  love  me  now,  perhaps ;  but 
one  day  you'll  need  me.  I'm  waiting  till  you  need  me,  and 

then .  You  are  my  sort,  Cherry ;  but  I'll  never  be  good 

enough  for  you.  All  the  time  I'm  trying,  ever  since  I've 
known  you  I've  been  trying  to  become  better.  It's  like  yes 
terday  :  whenever  I'm  losing  the  race  and  getting  slack  I 
hear  you  calling.  Then  I  say  to  myself,  'I  have  to  be  fine 
for  her.'  I  think  you  must  be  my  sort,  Cherry,  if  you  can 
do  that.  Love  was  meant  not  to  make  people  perfect,  but 
to  make  them  believe  always  in  the  best.  If  you  do  that 
for  me,  Cherry ." 

She  put  her  hands  before  her  eyes  and  slipped  back 
against  the  cushions,  as  though  she  had  become  very  tired. 
He  stole  down  the  punt  noiselessly  and  knelt  beside  her. 

"Don't  you  like  to  be  loved,  Cherry?" 

She  spoke,  still  with  her  eyes  covered.  "Of  course  I  like 
to  be  loved.  Every  girl  likes  to  know  that  some  man  cares 
for  her." 


382  THE    RAFT 

"Then,  why ?" 

Her  voice  came  wearily.  "Because  it  would  be  selfish, 
when  I  don't  intend  to  marry  you.  But — but  I  wish  I  didn't 
have  to  keep  away  from  you." 

He  leant  forward  and  kissed  her  cool  cheek.  "Then 
don't  keep  away  from  me." 

"You  mustn't  kiss  me,  Peter.  If  only  you  wouldn't  kiss 
me  directly  we're  alone .  Why  do  you  ?" 

Why  did  he?  That  she  could  ask  such  a  question  told 
him  so  much.  She  was  like  a  beautiful  statue;  he  could 
stir  no  life  in  her. 

"Everybody's  done  it,"  he  said  simply;  "everybody  since 
the  world  began.  You  can't  help  it  when  you  love  any 
body." 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him 
wonderingly.  How  quickly  she  could  change  from  sad  to 
gay !  All  of  a  sudden,  from  seeming  listless  and  spent,  she 
had  become  radiant  and  virile.  Her  face  was  tender  and 
wore  an  amused  expression.  She  stooped  toward  him  and 
touched  him.  "Still  a  little  boy !  For  the  first  time  I  feel 
older  than  you — so  much  older.  What  good  times  you  and 
I  could  have  if  only  we  didn't  think  ahead." 

He  slipped  his  arm  about  her.  "Dear  little  Cherry,  you 
want  to  be  loved,  but  you  won't  believe  that  I'm  your  man. 
You  won't  let  yourself  love  me — that's  all  that's  the  matter. 
When  I  kiss  you  you  turn  your  face  away,  as  if  you  were 
only  enduring  me." 

She  thrust  her  face  forward  with  sweet  demureness. 
"Try  again. — I  didn't  turn  away  then. — You're  so  persistent, 
Peter.  No,  that's 'enough." 

He  pushed  out  from  the  rushes.  The  sun  was  tumbling 
into  bed,  spreading  his  gold  hair  on  the  pillow  and  drag 
ging  his  scarlet  bed-clothes  over  him.  The  river  was  dull 
as  tarnished  silver,  but  it  flared  crimson  where,  in  its  wind 
ings,  the  west  smote  it. 

"And  to-morrow,  Cherry?" 

"To-morrow  !  Does  it  ever  come  ?  I'm  leaving  to-night. 
I  promised  you  to-day ;  you've  had  it." 


ON   THE    RIVER  383 

"But  I  want  to-morrow  as  well." 

She  shook  her  head,  laughing.  "If  I  gave  you  to-morrow, 
you'd  ask  for  the  day  after.  You're  a  greedy  little  boy, 
never  contented." 

"But  why  must  you  go  ?"  he  asked. 

"Because  I'm  expected.  Lorie's  thinking  of  buying  a 
place  called  Tree-Tops;  it's  at  Curious  Corner,  near  a  vil 
lage  called  Whitesheaves.  He's  heard  all  kinds  of  splendid 
things  about  it.  It's  only  thirty  miles  from  Oxford,  so ." 

"So  we'll  meet  quite  often?" 

She  crouched  her  face  against  her  shoulder  and  kept  him 
waiting.  "If  you  don't  try  to  kiss  me."  she  said.  And  then, 
seeing  that  he  was  going  to  be  melancholy,  "You  never 
know  your  luck.  Cheer  up  !" 

At  the  barges,  when  they  had  stepped  out,  Peter  remem 
bered.  He  turned  to  the  barge-man,  "Mr.  Hardcastle  back  ? 
I  don't  see  his  punt." 

"  'Asn't  returned  as  I  know  of,  Mr.  Barrington.  'Ad  a 
lady  with  'im,  didn't  'e?  Any  message  for  'im  when  'e 
comes  ?" 

Peter  shook  his  head.  It  was  growing  dusk.  Walking 
up  through  the  meadows,  Cherry  let  him  take  her  hand. 

When  they  had  fetched  her  luggage  from  the  house  in 
the  little  courtyard,  and  he  had  seen  her  off  at  the  station, 
he  hurried  down  to  Folly  Bridge  and  along  the  tow-path. 
Staring  across  the  river  to  the  Calvary  Barge,  he  could  see 
someone  moving.  He  called.  A  punt  put  out;  when  it 
came  alongside,  the  man  looked  up  through  the  darkness. 

"Can't  take  you  across  to-night,  sir.  Wouldn't  be  no 
use ;  the  meadow-gates  is  shut." 

"It's  not  that,"  said  Peter;  "I  only  wanted  to  find  out 
if  Mr.  Hardcastle's  come  back." 

The  man  scratched  his  head.  "Not  yet,  sir.  Reckon  he 
must  'a  left  'is  punt  higher  up — by  Magdalen  Bridge,  per 
haps." 

"Perhaps.    Well,  it  doesn't  matter." 

He  strolled  away  thoughtfully. 


CHAPTER   XL 
MR.   GRACE  GOES  ON  THE  BUST 

MR.  GRACE  rose  by  stealth.  Dawn  had  not  yet  broken. 
He  groped  his  way  into  his  clothes  in  the  darkness ;  he  did 
not  dare  to  light  the  gas.  Clutching  his  boots  against  his 
breast,  with  ridiculous  caution  for  so  fat  a  man,  he  tiptoed 
down  the  stairs.  In  the  passage  he  listened  and  looked  up, 
half  expecting  to  see  a  head  in  curl-papers  surveying  him 
from  across  the  banisters.  He  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 
That  fine  bass  sound,  like  a  trombone  thrust  out  violently 
to  its  full  length,  was  his  son-in-law,  the  ex-policeman ; 
those  flute-like  notes,  tremulous  and  heart-stirring,,  were  his 
daughter's  musical  contributions  from  dreamland.  All  was 
well.  He  had  not  roused  them. 

In  the  stable  he  stuffed  up  the  window  with  a  sack  and 
lit  a  lamp.  Cat's  Meat  raised  his  head  and  winked  at  him — 
winked  at  him  solemnly.  It  was  a  solemn  occasion — they 
both  felt  it,  this  setting  of  a  daughter  at  defiance,  while 
horse  and  master  went  on  the  bust. 

The  preliminary  preparations  of  the  past  few  days  had 
awakened  suspicion.  For  one  thing,  Mr.  Grace  had  re 
painted  his  cab :  the  wheels  were  a  bright  mustard  and  the 
body  was  a  deep  blue — the  color  which  is  usually  associated 
with  Oxford.  For  years — too  many  to  count — Cat's  Meat's 
harness  had  done  service,  tied  together  with  bits  of  rope 
and  string  where  the  leather  had  worn  out.  But  to-day  his 
harness  was  brand  new — of  a  vivid  tan.  Yesterday,  and  the 
day  before,  Cat's  Meat  and  his  master  had  indulged  in  a 
rest — that  alone  gave  material  for  conjecture.  Grace  and 
her  ex-policeman  had  conjectured.  What  was  the  old  boy 

384 


MR.    GRACE   GOES    ON   THE    BUST        385 

planning?  Was  he  contemplating  marriage?  "And  at  his 
time  o'  life !"  they  said  scornfully.  At  any  rate,  they  were 
snoring  now. 

As  he  led  Cat.'s  Meat  out,  he  growled  in  his  ear,  "Not  a 
drop  o'  drink,  old  hoss,  till  this  here  is  h'ended.  And 

then ."  He  smacked  his  lips ;  the  lean  tail  flirted  across 

the  bony  haunches  in  assent.  Mr.  Grace  rubbed  the  nose 
of  his  friend,  "Go  by  h'every  pub  till  h'it's  h'ended,  old  pal, 
and  then .  Understand?" 

He  had  harnessed  up  and  was  tying  the  last  of  the  blue 
rosettes  to  Cat's  Meat's  bridle,  when  he  was  startled  by  a 
window  flung  up.  He  glanced  round — the  curl-papers  he 
dreaded ! 

"Now,  then,  father,  you  just  come  up  'ere  and  tell  me. 
You  just ." 

"Be  blowed  if  h'l  will." 

The  curl-papers  vanished ;  feet  were  coming  down  the 
stairs.  Scrambling  on  to  his  box,  he  jerked  at  the  reins 
and  lumbered  out  into  the  cold  March  dusk.  A  shrill  voice 
calling!  She  was  in  the  stable,  coming  down  the  street 
after  him.  What  had  she  on,  or  rather  what  hadn't  she? 
"My  word,"  he  muttered,  "wot  a  persistent  hussy !"  He 
cracked  his  whip.  Cat's  Meat  broke  into  a  stiff-kneed 
gallop. 

At  a  cabman's  shelter  near  Trafalgar  Square  he  halted 
for  breakfast.  The  glory  of  his  appearance  attracted  at 
tention. 

"  'Ere  comes  Elijah  in  'is  bloomin'  chariot." 

"Wot-ho,  old  mustard-pot !    'Ot  stuff !" 

Mr.  Grace  conducted  himself  with  gravity.  "I'm  h'off 
ter  the  races.  Got  a  friend  o'  mine  rowin'." 

"Oh,  you  'ave,  'ave  yer?  A  reg'lar  Sol  Joel,  that's  wot 
you  are." 

He  left  his  friends  with  a  flourish.  It  was  almost  as 
though  his  youth  had  returned — almost  as  though  he  hadn't 
a  red  nose  and  a  daughter  who  tried  to  convert  him.  He 
felt  young  and  smart  this  blowy  morning.  He  didn't  want 
to  see  a  reflection  of  himself ;  he  wanted  to  pretend  that  he 


386  THE    RAFT 

was  a  brisk  young  cabby,  when  cab-driving  was  an  art  and 
not  a  creeping  means  of  livelihood.  Flower-girls  were  at 
the  corners,  shaking  daffodils  and  violets  in  the  faces  of 
the  passing  crowd. 

"By  the  Lord  Harry !" 

He  signed  to  her  with  his  whip — he  felt  affluent.  He 
bought  two  bunches,  and  leant  down  from  his  box  while 
she  pinned  one  in  his  button-hole.  The  other  he  hid  be 
neath  the  seat  in  Cat's  Meat's  nose-bag. 

"Good  luck,  me  gal — and  a  'andsome  'usband." 

"The  sime  ter  you,  old  sport." 

She  blew  him  a  kiss.  Ah,  if  he  had  been  young !  Not  a 
bad  lookin'  gal !  Not  'arf ! 

He  turned  into  Deane  Street  and  crawled  through  Soho, 
that  queer  Chinese  puzzle  of  cramped  dwellings,  all  with 
fronts  that  look  like  backs.  He  pulled  up  outside  the  sec 
ond-hand  shop  and  entered  with  his  whip,  tied  with  blue 
ribbon,  held  out  before  him. 

"  'Ow's  tride  s'mornin',  Mr.  Waffles  ?  Get  them  'andker- 
chiefs,  wot  you  call  spats,  on  ter  yer  boots.  Put  a  little  glue 
on  yer  bloomin'  whiskers.  'Urry  up. — Where  are  we  goin'  ? 
Yer'll  see  presently." 

Ocky  expostulated.  The  fear  of  Mr.  Widow's  displeas 
ure  was  heavy  on  him.  "But  what'll  I  tell  him?  How'll 
I  explain  to  him?" 

"Tell  'im  yer've  stroked  yer  wife's  'ead  wiv  a  poker. 
Tell  'im  she's  packed  up  sudden  for  a  better  land.  Tell 
'im  yer  taikin'  a  'oliday  on  the  strength  of  it.  Tell  'im ." 

"Shish !  He  may  hear.  He's  sensitive.— All  right.  I'll 
come." 

Mr.  Grace  had  his  own  code  of  etiquette.  He  refused 
to  let  Ocky  mount  on  the  box  beside  him.  "Ain't  done," 
he  said.  From  the  nose-bag  he  produced  the  button-hole 
and  presented  it  to  his  friend.  "Git  in,"  he  commanded, 
opening  the  door  of  his  cab.  Before  he  drove  off  he 
stooped  and  shouted  in  at  the  window,  "Matey,  this  ain't 
no  bloomin'  funeral.  Wriggle  a  smile  on  ter  yer  mouth. 
Laugh  at  the  color  of  me  bally  keb." 


MR.    GRACE    GOES    ON   THE    BUST        387 

He  cocked  his  hat  to  a  jaunty  angle  and  tugged  on  the 
reins,  humming: 

"Bill  Higgs 
Useter  feed  the  pigs, 
Caress  'em  with  'is  'obnail  boots, 
Tum-tee-tum." 

He  couldn't  remember  what  came  next,  so  he  contented 
himself  with  whistling  the  opening  bars  over  and  over. 
He  felt  exceedingly  merry. 

Traffic  seemed  to  be  pouring  all  in  one  direction.  Every 
one  was  in  high  spirits ;  cabbies  and  bus-drivers  kept  up  a 
ceaseless  stream  of  chaff.  The  thud  of  hoofs  on  the  wooden 
paving  was  the  beat  of  a  drum  to  which  London  marched. 
Everything  was  moving.  Overhead  white  clouds  dashed 
against  sky-precipices.  Window-boxes  were  rife  with 
flowers.  Parks  and  green  garden  patches  swam  up  to 
cheer  the  endless  procession,  stood  stationary  and  fluttered 
as  it  passed,  then  melted.  Light  blue  and  dark  blue  favors 
showed  wherever  the  eye  rested.  Newsboys  climbed  buses 
shouting,  and  ran  by  the  side  of  carriages,  distributing  their 
papers.  At  a  halt,  Mr.  Grace  turned  and  shouted  to  Ocky, 
"I  sye,  old  cock,  d'yer  know  where  all  us  sports  is  goin'? 
We're  goin'  ter  see  yer  nevvy. — Hi,  Cat's  Meat,  kum  up." 

Houses  grew  smaller,  streets  more  narrow  and  old-fash 
ioned.  Then  the  river,  broad  and  full-flowing,  like  a  vein 
swollen  to  bursting.  On  the  bridges  black  specks  swarmed 
like  ants.  Along  the  bank  crowds  stood  packed  against  the 
parapet.  Bets  were  being  offered  and  taken.  Ceaseless 
banter  and  laughing.  Jostling.  Good-natured  expostula 
tion.  A  hat  blew  off. 

Mr.  Grace  drew  up  against  the  curb.  From  the  point 
which  he  had  selected,  by  standing  on  the  roof,  a  glimpse 
could  be  obtained  of  the  racing  shells.  He  rattled  his  whip 
against  the  door. 

"  'Ere  you,  Old  Bright-and-Early,  come  h'out." 

Ocky  came  out — came  out  twirling  his  mustaches.  He 
had  caught  the  contagion  of  excitement.  He  felt  himself 


388  THE    RAFT 

to  be  more  than  a  spectator.  He  wanted  to  talk  in  a  loud 
voice  to  Mr.  Grace,  so  that  bystanders  might  overhear  and 
know  that  he  was  an  important  person — young  Barring- 
ton's  uncle.  Good  heavens,  half  London  had  left  its  work 
to  see  just  Peter,  stroking  the  Oxford  boat  against  Cam 
bridge. 

During  the  next  two  hours  while  they  waited,  they 
swopped  Peterish  stories.  "And  'e  sez  ter  me,  'Mr.  Grice/ 
'e  sez,  'you're  my  prickcaution.  Pve  got  somethink  the 
matter  with  me;  'magination  they  calls  it.  I  wants  you  to 
promise  me  ter  taik  care  of  'er,'  'e  sez.  And  I,  willin'  ter 
h'oblige  'im,  I  sez ." 

Mr.  Grace  sprang  up.  " 'Ulloa !  Wot's  this?  Strike  me 
blind,  if  they  ain't  comin' !" 

The  box-seat  wasn't  high  enough.  They  scrambled  on 
to  the  roof.  The  crowd  scrambled  after  them  ;  the  roof  was 
thronged,  without  an  inch  to  spare.  Cat's  Meat  straight 
ened  his  forelegs,  trying  to  see  above  the  people's  heads. 

"By  gosh,  they're  leading!" 

"No  such  luck.    They're  level." 

Eight  men,  crouched  in  a  wooden  groove  as  narrow  as  a 
pencil,  with  a  ninth  in  the  stern  to  guide  it !  The  pencil 
looked  so  narrow  that  it  was  a  wonder  that  it  floated.  The 
eight  men  moved  as  if  by  clock-work.  Eight  more  fol 
lowed,  a  quarter  of  a  length  behind.  Their  colors  were 
the  dark  blue  of  Mr.  Grace's  cab.  The  light  blues  of  Cam 
bridge  were  ahead. 

"Oxford  !  Oxford  !  Oxford  !"  Mr.  Grace  thumped  Ocky 
in  the  ribs  and  bellowed,  "There's  Peter.  See  'im?" 

As  though  Peter  had  heard,  he  raised  the  stroke  from 
thirty-four  to  thirty-six,  calling  on  his  men  for  a  spurt. 
They  were  creeping  up — lifting  their  boat  through  the 
water  in  a  splendid  effort.  Men  swore  beneath  their  breath  ; 
they  tiptoed  and  clawed  at  one  another,  utterly  selfish  and 
careless  in  their  wild  desire  to  gain  a  clearer  view  of  those 
distant  streaks  of  energy,  which  bent  forward  and  swung 
back  mechanically  in  that  gray  ribbon  of  beaten  water. 
They  were  shooting  under  the  bridge  now,  police-boats  and 


MR.    GRACE   GOES    ON    THE    BUST        389 

launches  spluttering,  hooting  and  following.  The  crowd 
swayed,  broke  and  ran.  Men  leapt  down  from  lamp-posts 
and  points  of  vantage. 

Something  happened.  Mr.  Grace  was  pushed  from  be 
hind — pushed  off  the  roof  of  his  own  cab.  He  picked 
himself  up  indignantly  from  the  pavement  and  tried  to 
clamber  back.  It  mightn't  have  been  his  cab — it  was  ter 
ritory  invaded  and  held  by  intruders. 

"  'Ere  you  !    Git  orf  of  it." 

He  laid  about  him  with  his  whip  and  clutched  at  coat- 
tails.  Someone  hit  him  on  the  mouth.  He  hit  back.  A 
policeman  came  up.  No  time  for  explaining.  He  was 
angry  enough  to  fight  the  whole  world.  What  was  Peter 
doing? 

"Leggo  o'  me.  It's  me  own  keb.  A  free  country,  indeed ! 
'Ere  you,  come  orf  of  it." 

He  battled  his  way  to  the  box.  For  one  moment  he  saw 

two  disappearing  specks,  and  then .  A  crack !  A  man 

was  waist-deep  in  woodwork.  The  invaders  jumped  down 
to  save  themselves.  The  policeman  hopped  into  the  cab  and 
levered  the  legs  back. 

Mr.  Grace  was  purple.  "Pushed  me  orf  me  keb,  that's 
wot  they  did.  And  now  I  arsks  yer  ter  h'inspeck  that  roof. 
'E  wuz  goin'  to  arrest  me.  Garn,  puddin'  face.  Yer 
daren't." 

"Move  along.    Move  along,  me  man." 

There  was  nothing  for  it.  Mr.  Grace  picked  up  the 
reins.  "Puddin'  face,"  he  flung  back  across  his  shoulder. 
"Yes,  h'it's  you  I'm  meanm'.  Puddin'  face — yer  bally  cop." 

It  was  only  when  he  had  turned  a  corner  and  climbed 
down  to  examine  the  damage,  that  he  realized  that  he  had 
lost  Mr.  Waffles. 

He  trundled  back  to  London — had  got  as  far  as  Hyde 
Park  Corner,  when  a  yelling  boy  rushed  by  him  with  a 
sheaf  of  papers. 

"Hi,  wot's  that?" 

He  snatched  one  and  read: 


390  THE    RAFT 

"Dark  Blue  Victory. 

"Long  Stern  Chase. 

"Harrington's  Great  Spurt. 

"Cambridge  Beaten  at  the  Winning  Post." 

What  did  it  matter?  What  did  anything  matter,  broken 
roofs  or  bruised  mouths.  Peter  had  done  the  trick !  Peter, 
the  queer  little  tyke  who  had  been  his  prickcaution !  He 
shouted  the  news  to  Cat's  Meat.  He  held  up  the  traffic,  he 
and  Cat's  Meat,  and  the  dark  blue  cab.  He  must  tell  some 
body, — somebody  who  would  understand.  Mr.  Waffles 
would  understand.  He  had  a  few  drinks  at  a  few  pubs  and 
arrived  at  Soho  hilarious.  Mr.  Widow  informed  him  that 
Ocky  had  not  returned.  He  wandered  off  in  search  of  the 
flower-girl.  At  the  back  of  his  mind  the  belief  grew  up 
that  she  would  be  sympathetic.  He  found  her,  tucked  her 
inside  and  drove  back  to  Soho.  Mr.  Widow  didn't  approve 
of  the  flower-girl  and  said  that  Ocky  hadn't  come  back. 
How  many  times  did  he  halt  before  the  second-hand  shop? 
How  many  pubs  had  he  visited?  What  had  become  of 
little  Kiss-me-Quick,  the  flower-girl?  She'd  disappeared, 
and  he  hadn't  any  money  in  his  pockets.  Never  mind,  there 
was  a  hole  in  the  roof  of  his  cab — his  day's  work  had  given 
him  something. 

Night  fell.  Stars  came  out.  Did  he  make  up  the  song 
himself?  Couldn't  have.  He  found  himself  again  before 
the  second-hand  shop,  still  on  the  box  of  his  cab.  The  shop 
was  shut  and  he  was  singing  to  empty  windows : 

"Oh, 

Mr.  Widow,  though 
A  murderer  you  be, 
You're 

Sure,  a  very  nice  man — 
A  good  enough  pal  for  me." 

Mr.  Widow  came  out,  sincerely  grieved,  and  expostu 
lated.  Mr.  Grace  begged  his  pardon  profoundly.  He  told 
him  that  he'd  always  admired  his  religious  whiskers; 
wouldn't  hurt  his  feelings,  however  many  wives  he'd  mur- 


MR.    GRACE    GOES    ON    THE    BUST        391 

dered ;  wanted  to  be  friends.  He  added,  in  a  whisper,  that 
he  had  a  daughter  who'd  be  all  the  better  for  a  poker 
brought  down  smartly  across  her  nut.  She  was  religious, 
too,  only  she  hadn't  got  whiskers.  Then  he  insisted  on 
shaking  hands,  and  was  at  last  allowed  to  on  condition  that, 
if  this  token  of  esteem  was  granted,  he  would  go  away  and 
never,  never  more  come  back — at  least,  not  till  morning. 

What  to  do  now?  The  night  was  young.  A  return  to 
the  stable  was  not  to  be  contemplated ;  that  daughter  of  his 
must  be  avoided.  Some  time,  when  he  was  a  very  old  man, 
he'd  go  home  to  her.  But  not  yet.  It  wasn't  every  man 
who  owned  a  blue  and  yellow  cab  with  a  hole  in  the  roof 
of  it. 

Perhaps  it  was  eleven — perhaps  earlier.  He  was  in 
Leicester  Square,  affording  himself  the  supreme  luxury  of 
refusing  to  be  hired.  Coming  down  the  steps  of  the  Em 
pire  was  a  group  of  young  men,  broad-shouldered,  slim  of 
hip  and  in  evening  dress.  Their  arms  were  linked.  As 
soon  as  they  appeared,  cheering  began ;  a  crowd  gathered 
round.  Someone  commenced  to  sing.  Others  took  it  up: 

"Mary  had  a  little  heart. 
She  lent  it  to  a  feller, 
Who  swallowed  it  by  h'axerdent 
And  didn't  dare  to  tell  'er. 
She  asked  it  back  and  said  she'd  sue — 
Away  the  feller  ran. 
Whatever  will  poor  Mary  do? 
She's  lost  both  heart  and  man." 

They'd  all  gone  mad.  Pandemonium  broke  loose.  Mr. 
Grace  wondered  vaguely  what  it  meant.  Why  were  people 
dancing?  Why  were  people  shouting?  Then  he  saw  that 
the  maddest  of  the  mad  wore  a  dark  blue  badge.  He  heard 
someone  explain  to  a  neighbor,  "The  winning  crew." 

His  brain  cleared.  He  was  off  his  box  in  a  flash,  strug 
gling,  panting,  fighting  his  way  to  that  tall  young  chap  who 
was  in  the  centre.  He  was  wringing  him  by  the  hand. 

"Why,  by  all  that's  wonderful,  it's  Mr.  Grace!     Where 


392  THE    RAFT 

did  you  spring  from  ?"  Before  the  question  was  answered, 
Peter  was  introducing  him,  to  the  Faun  Man,  to  Harry, 
to  Hardcastle,  to  a  host  of  others. 

Mr.  Grace  was  both  elated  and  abashed.  "Want  a  keb? 
Sime  old  keb,  Mr.  Peter — got  it  'ere  a-witing  for  you." 

"Want  a  cab !  I  don't  know.  You  see,  there  are  so  many 
of  us." 

" 'Ow  many?  There's  plenty  o'  room,  Mr.  Peter,  both 
inside  and  h'out.  There  ain't  no  charge.  Put  h'as  many 
h'as  yer  like  on  the  roof,  so  long  as  Cat's  Meat  can  drar 
yer.  I've  'ad  a  ''ole  cut  for  yer  legs  on  purpose." 

Harry  laughed.  "If  Cat's  Meat  can't  manage  it,  we'll 
shove." 

They  piled  in  uproariously.  The  suggestion  was  made 
that  Cat's  Meat  should  be  taken  out  and  that  Peter  should 
be  allowed  to  ride  him.  Mr.  Grace  wouldn't  hear  of  it. 
"None  o'  that,  young  gen'lemen.  Cruelty  ter  h'animiles. 
The  keb  'olds  'im  h'up. — Where  to?" 

The  Gilded  Turtle  was  mentioned. 

For  all  that  there  were  four  on  the  roof  and  six  inside, 
Cat's  Meat  never  made  an  easier  journey — that  was  due  to 
the  singing  mob  of  undergraduates  who  lent  a  hand.  And 
Mr.  Grace — he  reflected  that  it  wasn't  for  naught  that  he 
had  repainted  his  growler.  He  was  the  proudest  cabby  in 
London  that  night — he  was  going  to  be  prouder. 

At  the  Gilded  Turtle  he  was  seated  next  to  Peter  and 
treated  as  an  honored  guest.  He  had  a  misty  impression 
that  the  waiters  were  stowed  away  beneath  tables  and  that 
their  places  were  taken  by  Peter's  friends.  He  believed 
and  asserted  to  the  day  of  his  death  that  he  made  the 
speech  of  the  evening — something  reminiscent  about  "prick- 
cautions,"  which  meandered  off  into  moral  reflections  about 
a  person  named  Kiss-Me-Quick  and  flower-girls  in  general. 
He  distinctly  remembered  that,  more  than  once,  he  turned 
his  pockets  inside  out,  asking  plaintively,  "What  lydy  done 
this?"  Then  the  gentleman  whose  ears  moved  like  a  dog's 
sang  a  nonsense-song  about  Peter.  They  all  joined  in  a 
rousing  chorus,  clinking  glasses : 


MR.   GRACE    GOES    ON   THE    BUST        393 

"He  kissed  the  moon's  dead  lips, 
He  googed  the  eye  of  the  sun ; 
But   when   we've  crawled  to  the  end  of   life, 
We'll  wonder  we  ever  begun. 

CHORUS 

"And  Peter  was  his  name- 
So   Peterish  was   he, 
He   wept   the    sun's    eye   back    again, 
Lest  he  should  never  see." 

"He  fought  the  pirate  king, 
Where  stars   fall  down   with  a  thud; 
But  we,  we  even  quake  to  hear 
Spring  rhubarb  break  into  bud. 

CHORUS 

And  Peter  was  his  name,  etc. 

"He  sailed  the  trackless  waste 
With  hair  the  colour,  of  blood ; 
But  we,  we  tramp  the  trampled  streets 
With  souls  the  colour  of  mud. 

"And  Peter  was  his  name — 
So   Peterish  was  he, 
He  wept  the  sun's  eye  back  again, 
Lest  he  should  never  see." 

Where  was  Peter?  Where  were  Harry  and  the  Faun 
Man?  He  was  out  in  the  streets — only  the  wildest  of  the 
young  bloods  remained  with  him.  It  didn't  matter  to  this 
cab-driving  Falstaff  if  they  all  went  away  and  only  Cat's 
Meat  stayed,  he  was  going  to  make  a  night  of  it. 

Hardcastle  was  complaining  that  he'd  never  been  arrested 
and  taken  to  Vine  Street.  He  insisted  that  it  ought  to  hap 
pen  to  every  English  gentleman  at  least  once.  They  drove 
back  to  Leicester  Square  to  see  if  they  could  find  a  police 
man  who'd  make  up  this  deficiency  in  their  education. 
They  found  three,  only  they  chose  the  wrong  side  of  the 
Square  and  discovered  that  they  were  being  taken  to  a  less 
aristocratic  station.  Then  they  explained  their  mistake,  and 


394  THE    RAFT 

their  captors,  being,  as  the  Faun  Man  would  have  said, 
"very  human  fellows,"  accepted  compensation  for  wasted 
time,  called  them  "My  Lords,"  and  allowed  them  to  escape. 

It  was  Mr.  Grace  who  provided  the  final  entertainment. 
They  had  grown  a  little  tired  of  his  constant  enquiry  as  to 
"What  lydy  done  this?"  Being  unwilling  to  lose  their 
esteem  as  a  humorist,  he  drove  them  down  side  streets  to 
a  second-hand  shop,  which  he  had  promised  "never  no  more 
to  visit." 

The  house  was  in  complete  darkness.  He  threw  down 
the  reins  and  stood  up,  his  whip  clasped  against  his  breast, 
his  eyes  lifted  to  the  white  moon  sailing  in  silence  over 
sulky  chimney-pots.  Singing  ran  in  his  family;  it  was 
from  him  that  Grace  inherited  her  talent.  What  his  voice 
lacked  in  sweetness  it  made  up  in  volume.  He  startled  the 
stillness  lustily : 

"Oh, 

Mister  Widow,  though 

A  murderer  you  be, 

You're 

Sure,  a  very  nice  man — 

A   good  enough  pal   for  me." 

If  Mr.  Widow  had  been  a  sportsman,  he  would  have  felt 
flattered  that  the  winning  Oxford  crew  should  take  the 
trouble  to  greet  him  thus  musically  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  He  wasn't  A  night-capped  head  appeared  at  a 
window.  The  singing  grew  more  hearty.  The  head  van 
ished.  The  street  door  opened.  A  gentleman,  very  hastily 
attired,  carrying  a  pair  of  white  spats  in  his  hand,  shot  out 
on  to  the  pavement.  A  voice  from  the  darkened  shop  pur 
sued  him,  "  'Ad  enough  of  you.  A  man  is  known  by  'is 
friends." 

The  door  closed  as  suddenly  as  it  had  opened. 

Mr.  Grace  hailed  the  new  arrival,  "  'Ulloa,  duckie !  Been 
lookin'  for  you  h'everywhere." 

"I  wish  you  hadn't,"  growled  Ocky. 

Cat's  Meat  shivered  in  his  harness.     Mr.  Grace,  aware 


Htcat 


"  A  wonder  of  a  oss, 
and  a  reg'lar  mother 
ter  me." 


MR.    GRACE    GOES    ON   THE    BUST        395 

that  he  was  somehow  in  error,  picked  up  the  reins.  "Well, 
good  night,  young  gen'lemen.  Me  and  Mr.  Waffles  is  goin' 
'ome  ter  bed.  Kum  up,  Cat's  Meat." 

But  Cat's  Meat  didn't  come  up;  he  lolled  between  the 
shafts,  listless  and  dejected.  Mr.  Grace  climbed  down 
from  the  box  to  examine  him.  "Wot's  matter,  old  pal  ?  Got 
a  'eadache?" 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  pat  him.  Cat's  Meat  shiv 
ered  again,  lolled  over  a  little  farther  and  crashed  to  the 
ground.  He  flickered  his  eye-lid  just  once,  wearily  and  re 
proachfully,  saying  as  plainly  as  was  possible  for  so  dumb 
an  animal,  "Old  man,  we've  been  and  gone  and  done  it." 

A  hat  was  passed  round.  When  its  contents  were  pre 
sented  to  Mr.  Grace  he  pushed  it  away  from  him.  He  was 
sobbing.  "H'it's  not  that ;  it  ain't  the  money.  'E  were  the 
only  man  'as  ever  understood  me.  'Is  h'intellergence  wuz 
a  thing  to  marvel  h'at.  A  wonder  of  a  'oss,  'e  were.  I've 
often  said  h'it.  'E'd  bring  me  'ome  as  drunk  as  a  lord  and 
as  saife  as  a  baby.  'E  wuz  a  reg'lar  mother  ter  me,  'e 
were." 

The  revelers  melted  into  the  night  down  the  shuttered 
street,  leaving  Mr.  Grace  with  the  disregarded  hat  of 
money,  the  dead  horse  sprawled  across  the  broken  shafts 
and  a  gentleman,  from  whose  hand  a  pair  of  white  spats 
dangled,  contemplating  the  ruin  disconsolately. 


CHAPTER    XLI 
TREE-TOPS 

TREE-TOPS  stood  half-way  up  the  hill,  looking  out  across 
a  terraced  garden.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  lay  a  plain, 
where  hamlets  nestled  beneath  the  wings  of  trees,  and  mead 
ows  washed  about  the  shores  of  yellow  wheat-lands  like 
green  rivers  in  flood.  In  blue  pastures,  beyond  the  edge  of 
the  horizon,  white  clouds  wandered  like  browsing  sheep. 

The  windows  of  Tree-Tops  were  latticed.  The  roof  was 
thatched.  It  was  no  more  than  a  converted  cottage.  It 
blinked  at  you  as  though  it  wore  spectacles. 

Behind  it  ran  a  Roman  road,  buried  deep  in  the  leaves 
of  centuries.  On  the  brow  of  the  hill  was  a  legionaries' 
camp.  To  show  where  the  road  ended  a  white  cross  had 
been  cut,  by  turning  back  the  sod  from  the  underlying 
chalk.  Gathered  about  the  camp  in  a  half-circle,  spreading 
back  for  miles  through  uplands,  was  a  beech-forest  whose 
leaves  fluttered  like  green  butterflies  crucified  on  boughs 
of  silver.  Clouds  trailed  slowly  over  it,  or  hung  snared 
in  its  topmost  branches. 

Over  the  shoulder  of  the  hill,  immediately  behind  the 
Faun  Man's  house,  lay  a  golf-course  with  vivid  squares  of 
close-cropped  turf  from  which  red  flags  waved  angrily  as 
poppies.  Across  the  valley  shone  fields  of  mustard,  like 
sunlight  falling  in  sudden  patches. 

The  Faun  Man  puzzled  Curious  Corner.  The  village 
might  have  been  named  in  prophecy  of  his  advent,  with 
such  extraordinary  oddness  did  he  conduct  his  household. 
Like  birds  hopping  in  and  out  of  a  hedge,  his  visitors  came 
and  went  without  knocking.  Nobody  tried  to  explain  any 
body  ;  no  one  at  Tree-Tops  thought  explanation  necessary. 

396 


TREE-TOPS  397 

The  women  were  young  and  dashing;  certainly  they  were 
not  married  to  the  men.  If  they  were  wicked — which  was 
never  proved — they  were  decidedly  light-hearted. 

By  day  they  played  golf  and  rode  horseback.  By  night 
they  sat  in  the  terraced  garden,  where  fragrances  wandered 
like  old,  sweet  memories ;  there,  to  the  tinkling  of  banjos 
and  mandolins,  they  sang  till  dusk  had  brimmed  the  valleys 
and  the  moon  sailed  solitary.  When  their  laughter  had 
grown  tired,  a  light  would  spring  up  in  a  room  beneath  the 
thatch  where  the  Faun  Man  worked.  Sometimes  it  would 
outstay  the  dawn.  The  villagers  watched  these  doings  from 
a  distance.  They  wagged  their  heads. 

But  if  Tree-Tops  had  the  reputation  for  being  wild, 
there  could  be  no  doubt  that  its  master  had  money.  He 
drove  a  four-in-hand  from  Oxford  to  London.  He  rode 
a  horse  called  Satan,  which  no  one  could  manage ;  it  had 
killed  two  men  already.  And  the  money!  He  coined  it 
with  his  pen — so  it  was  reported. 

But  the  inhabitants  of  Curious  Corner  never  guessed  the 
motive  of  all  this  frivolity :  that  the  Faun  Man  wasn't  really 
living — was  only  distracting  himself,  till  a  woman  with 
golden  hair  should  nod,  when  life  would  commence. 

And  the  golden  woman !  Peter  saw  her  often :  in  Ox 
ford  ;  when  he  cycled  out  with  Harry  to  Tree-Tops ;  during 
his  vacations  in  London.  He  couldn't  believe  what  Harry 
told  him — that  she  was  cold  and  selfish.  Everything  that 
she  did  was  tender,  from  the  caressing  way  she  had  of 
speaking  to  the  childish  frankness  with  which  she  slipped 
her  hand  into  his  own  when  she  was  happy.  She  made 
everyone  love  her  and  everyone  forgive  her — everyone  ex 
cept  Harry  and  Cherry.  She  had  studied  the  art  of  ap 
pearing  adorable,  so  that  what  in  others  were  faults  in  her 
took  on  the  glamour  of  attractions.  She  was  so  fond  of  the 
Faun  Man — why  didn't  she  marry  him  ?  Peter  didn't  know. 
He  gave  it  up — shrugged  his  shoulders.  Somewhere  under 
ground,  as  in  his  own  life,  the  body  of  love  lay  buried.  In 
the  stillness,  did  he  listen,  he  could  hear  jealousy  gnawing 
— gnawing  like  a  rat  in  the  coffin  of  a  dead  princess.  Once, 


398  THE    RAFT 

in  reading  one  of  the  Faun  Man's  books,  he  came  across 
a  jotting  in  the  margin,  the  thought  of  which  had  no  bear 
ing  on  the  text.  It  was  as  though  thwarted  longing  had 
cried  aloud,  suddenly  becoming  aware  of  its  own  tragedy. 
The  sentence  read :  "Life  is  slipping  away  from  us.  I 
have  tried  to  make  you  love  me.  And  yet ." 

The  bond  of  sympathy  which  existed  between  himself 
and  the  golden  woman  increased  in  strength  and  knowledge. 
He  could  talk  to  her  of  so  many  things  concerning  which 
he  was  silent  to  other  people.  Being  in  love,  he  had  to  talk 
to  someone.  She  was  so  wise  in  the  advice  she  gave  him. 
By  the  patience  with  which  she  listened,  she  seemed  to  tell 
him  that  she  herself  had  endured  the  same  indifference. 
How  that  could  be  he  did  not  understand.  She  encouraged 
him  to  make  confession.  It  became  a  habit.  Perhaps  the 
trust  which  he  placed  in  her  flattered  her.  It  may  have 
been  that  his  capacity  for  being  so  sheerly  young  tantalized 
her — she  desired  above  all  things  to  be  always  young  her 
self.  Without  doubt  his  implicit  faith  in  her  goodness 
helped  to  silence  her  self-despisings. 

But  she  was  not  above  using  their  friendship  as  a  means 
of  provoking  the  Faun  Man.  She  would  slip  her  arm  about 
Peter's  neck  and  say,  "No  chance  for  you  now,  Lorie." 

Her  lover's  eyes  would  rest  on  her  broodingly  and  film 
over,  hiding  his  thoughts,  "Oh,  well,  I  have  Cherry." 

Even  though  Cherry  knew  that  it  was  said  in  pretence, 
her  face  would  grow  radiant.  It  hurt  Peter.  He  would 
willingly  have  given  the  best  years  of  his  life  to  make  her 
care  for  him  like  that.  It  was  then  that  he  listened,  and 
heard  within  himself  the  gnawing  of  the  rat  of  jealousy. 

Cherry — he  made  no  progress  with  her.  She  seemed  to 
like  him,  and  she  held  him  off.  She  avoided  being  left 
alone  with  him.  In  company  there  were  times  when  she 
treated  him  with  intimacy — times  when  she  ignored  him. 
While  all  his  actions  told  her  plainly  that  in  his  life  she  was 
the  supreme  interest,  she  seemed  to  go  out  of  her  way  to 
inform  him,  without  words,  that  in  hers  he  was  secondary. 
Then,  when  he  had  grown  tired  and  had  almost  determined 


TREE-TOPS  399 

to  cure  himself,  she  would  do  something  unexpected  and 
considerate  which  kept  him  hoping.  Only  at  parting  did 
she  allow  herself  to  appear  glad  of  him.  She  had  the 
power  of  chilling  him  with  her  graciousness,  while  with 
her  gray  eyes  she  allured  him.  Cherry!  Cherry!  Her 
name  set  all  his  world  to  music. 

One  day  he  found  her  alone  at  Tree-Tops.  She  had 
fallen  asleep  in  the  bay-window,  which  looked  out  over  the 
plain  where  the  meadows  flowed  smoothly  and  the  wheat- 
fields  ripened.  The  others  had  left  her — had  gone  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  hill  to  play  golf.  He  had  cycled  out  from 
Oxford  without  warning.  Climbing  through  the  steep  gar 
den,  busy  with  the  stir  of  birds  and  insects,  he  espied  her 
curled  up  like  a  kitten  among  the  cushions,  her  eyes  fast 
shut  and  her  breath  coming  softly.  He  stooped  over  her, 
tempted  by  the  redness  of  her  mouth.  Her  eyes  opened. 
She  showed  no  embarrassment — made  no  attempt  to  brush 
away  her  sleepiness.  She  did  not  move,  but  lay  there  meet 
ing  his  gaze  quietly. 

He  broke  the  silence.  "Cherry,  why  do  you  always  avoid 
touching  me?  We're  farther  apart  now  than  we  were — 
were  when  we  first  met.  I  can't  surprise  you  any  longer  by 
telling  you  that  I  love  you.  And  yet — and  yet  to  me  it's 
still  wonderful.  Why  do  you  always  treat  me  as  though 
I  were  nothing?" 

"Do  I  ?    I  don't  mean  to." 

He  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her  hand.  "Shall  I  go 
away?  If  I  went  away  you  might  learn  to  'miss  me." 

She  turned  toward  him  gently.  "Please,  please,  Peter, 
don't  do  that." 

"Then  you  do  want  me — you  would  miss  me?  I  never 
know  what  you  think  of  me.  You  never  tell  me — never 
betray  yourself.'' 

She  let  her  fingers  nestle  in  his  hand.  "There's  only  one 
Peter.  Of  course  I'd  miss  you.  I  don't  need  to  tell  you 
that.  I  like  you  very  much,  Peter." 

He  looked  away  across  the  unheeding  country.  "Like! 
Yes,  but  liking  isn't  loving." 


400  THE    RAFT 

Voices  were  heard  and  footsteps  approaching.  She  sat 
up  hurriedly,  smoothing  out  her  dress.  "I'd  so  much  rather 
be  friends.  I'd  be  such  a  good  little  friend  to  you,  Peter,  if 
you'd  only  be  content  with  that." 

Content  with  that!     He  shook  his  head. 

"Cherry,  I  couldn't." 

The  Faun  Man  and  the  golden  woman  entered.  They 
were  laughing.  "You  always  treat  me  in  public  as  if  we 
were  alone  together.  Really,  Lorie,  I  wish  you ." 

Then  she  saw  Peter  seated  close  to  Cherry.  Her  eyes 
saddened. 


CHAPTER    XLII 
THE   COACH-RIDE  TO  LONDON 

"I  WONDER  why  he  doesn't  come !" 

Peter  stepped  out  of  the  college-lodge,  gazing  up  and 
down  the  cobbled  street. 

Harry,  always  undisturbed  and  good-natured,  laughed. 
"One  can  never  be  sure  of  Lorie.  Looks  as  though  it  was 
going  to  rain.  P'raps  he's  put  it  off  because  of  that." 

"If  he  had,"  said  Peter,  "he'd  have  sent  us  word." 

For  two  hours  they'd  been  inventing  excuses  for  the 
Faun  Man.  He  had  told  them  to  invite  a  party  of  their 
friends  and  he'd  drive  them  to  London.  To  go  to  London 
without  permission  was  against  all  rules ;  but  to  ask  per 
mission  would  be  useless,  since  most  of  the  men,  like  Peter 
and  Harry,  were  sitting  for  their  Finals  within  the  next 
fortnight.  That  they  were  taking  a  sporting  chance  of 
discovery  lent  a  touch  of  daring  to  the  excursion. 

All  of  them  had  risen  early  and  had  been  ready  for  the 
start  since  nine.  It  was  nearly  eleven.  If  the  Faun  Man 
didn't  turn  up  shortly  they  wouldn't  have  time  to  cover  the 
sixty  odd  miles  to  London  and  to  catch  the  last  train  back. 
That  last  train  back  was  very  necessary.  If  they  weren't 
in  college  or  their  lodgings  by  midnight  when  doors  were 
locked,  there  was  no  telling  what  would  happen.  Prob 
ably  they'd  get  sent  down,  which  would  mean  that  they'd 
miss  their  Finals,  and  would  either  lose  their  degrees  or 
have  to  wait  a  year  before  they  were  examined. 

They  were  getting  fidgety,  pulling  out  and  consulting 
their  watches.  Some  of  them  were  already  saying  that  it 
was  too  late  to  risk  it.  A  horn  sounded.  Peter  glanced 

401 


402  THE    RAFT 

back  from  the  road  into  the  lodge  and  shouted,  "Hi,  you 
fellows  !  Here  he  comes." 

Round  the  corner  swung  the  chestnut  leaders,  tossing 
their  heads  and  jingling  their  bridles.  As  the  wheelers  fol 
lowed  and  the  coach  drew  into  sight,  an  exclamation  went 
up,  "Why,  he  isn't ." 

They  looked  again  to  make  certain.  No,  he  wasn't.  In 
stead,  a  woman  sat  on  the  box,  erect  and  lonely,  perched 
high  up,  governing  the  reins  with  her  small,  thin  hands. 
Her  trim  figure  was  clad  in  a  dark  blue  suit,  close-fitting 
as  a  riding-habit,  with  pale  blue  facings.  Her  hair  was 
caught  back  into  a  loose  knot  against  her  neck  and  dressed 
so  smoothly  that  it  shone  like  metal.  The  effort  of  con 
trolling  the  horses  had  brought  a  flush  to  her  cheeks.  Her 
eyes  sparkled  with  mischief  at  the  sensation  she  was  creat 
ing.  She  reined  in  against  the  pavement,  glancing  down 
provocatively  at  the  group  of  young  men.  She  looked  a 
goddess,  and  had  the  sense  to  know  it.  "Given  up  hoping 
for  me,"  she  cried  cheerfully;  "is  that  it?" 

Peter  nodded.  "Pretty  nearly.  But  where's  the  Faun 
Man  and  Cherry?  Why  are  you  driving?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I'll  tell  you  later.  Scram 
ble  up." 

They  scrambled  up,  filling  the  roof  and  joking,  all  their 
high  spirits  and  anticipation  recovered. 

"Ready." 

The  guard  sprang  away  from  the  leaders'  heads  and 
clambered  up  behind  as  the  coach  started  forward. 

It  was  a  gray  day,  with  patches  of  blue  gleaming  through 
it,  like  light  through  holes  in  the  roof  of  a  tent.  As  they 
passed  over  Magdalen  Bridge  the  willows  shuddered  and 
stooped  above  the  water,  prophesying  that  rain  was  coming. 
The  moisture  in  the  air  made  colors  stand  out  sudden  and 
separate.  Even  sounds  seemed  accentuated.  From  farm 
lands,  near  and  far,  live  things  called  plaintively.  Cocks 
bugled  shrill  alarms.  Cattle  waded  restlessly  knee-deep  in 
summer  meadows.  Birds  fluttered  out  of  hedges,  as  if  set 
ting  out  on  journeys ;  then  thought  better  of  it  and  hastily 


THE    COACH-RIDE    TO    LONDON          403 

returned.  Fields  lay  hushed.  In  contrast,  the  sky  was  torn 
and  rutted.  Clouds  lurched  forward,  black  and  sullen,  like 
artillery  taking  up  positions.  Detached  wisps  of  mist  hur 
ried  hither  and  thither,  like  isolated  bands  of  cavalry. 
Through  the  brooding  stillness  the  coach  swayed  onward. 
The  horses'  hoofs  rattled  as  castanet  accompaniment  to  the 
laughter  of  conversation. 

At  the  long,  white  inn  of  The  Three  Pigeons  they 
changed  horses,  getting  ready  for  the  climb  out  of  the  val 
ley  past  Ashton  Rowant.  The  golden  woman  called  to 
Peter  to  come  and  sit  on  the  box  beside  her.  She  was  a 
pleased  child,  patting  his  hand  and  smiling  down  at  him 
side-long  as  he  took  his  place.  She  treated  him  in  public 
with  the  same  affection  that  she  used  to  him  in  private ;  she 
had  complained  of  the  Faun  Man  for  treating  her  like  that. 
Peter  wondered. — Her  eyes  were  immensely  blue  and  wide 
this  morning.  She  seemed  no  older  than  on  that  first  day 
when  he  had  seen  her  in  the  white  room  of  the  Happy  Cot 
tage.  He  watched  her  now,  as  she  leant  out  with  her  whip 
to  catch  the  reins  which  the  ostler  tossed  up.  How  graceful 
she  was,  how  determinedly  young  and  buoyant ! 

He  touched  her.  "You  were  going  to  tell  me  why  Cherry 
and  the  Faun  Man  didn't ." 

She  broke  in  upon  him.  "Was  I?  Perhaps  later.  Can't 
you  forget  Cherry  just  for  once?  I'm  here  and — and  won't 
you  be  content  with  only  me  for  a  little  while,  Peter?" 

She  spoke  lightly,  with  a  pretence  at  wounded  feelings, 

and  yet .  He  had  piqued  her  pride.  He  had  noticed  it 

before,  especially  of  late — the  same  flippancy  of  tone  and 
quick  turning  away  of  the  head  when  Cherry's  name  was 
mentioned.  Harry  explained  it  by  saying  that  she  was 
envious  of  any  affection  given  to  another  woman. 

The  new  team  was  full  of  fire — it  took  all  her  attention. 
"So,  girl!  So!  Steady  there.  Steady!" 

Peter  knew  these  grays ;  he  had  heard  the  Faun  Man 
speak  of  them,  "Nervous  as  cats.  Take  a  devil  of  a  lot  of 
holding."  She  handled  them  like  a  veteran. 

"Golden  woman,  you're  wonderful." 


404  THE    RAFT 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  coquettishly,  raising  her 
brows  and  laughing  silently.  Her  eyes  were  between  the 
leaders'  ears  on  the  road  in  front  of  her.  "I  know.  Can't 
help  it,  Peter.  It's  the  way  I  was  made."  And  then,  "But 
what  an  awfully  long  while  you've  taken  to  discover  it." 

"I  haven't.  But  where  was  the  good  of  my  telling  you? 
The  Faun  Man  let's  you  know  it  every  day  of  your  life." 

She  pouted.    "He  does.    But — but  that  isn't  the  same." 

Green  pasture-lands  of  the  valley  were  falling  away  be 
hind.  As  they  rose  higher,  woods  sprang  up,  standing  tip 
toe,  drinking  in  the  clouds.  The  atmosphere  grew  more 
heavy  and  thunderous.  The  horses  were  walking  now, 
scrambling  for  a  foothold  and  zigzagging  from  side  to  side 
as  they  took  the  steep  ascent.  The  men  dropped  off  the 
coach  to  lighten  it  and  went  ahead. 

Harry  caught  hold  of  Peter's  arm.  "Where's  Lorie? 
Did  she  tell  you  ?" 

"No.  When  I  ask  her,  she  says,  'Later,  perhaps.'  Can't 
get  another  word  out  of  her." 

Then  Harry  saw  a  great  light.  "I  bet  you  I've  guessed. 
Something  happened  at  the  last  minute  to  delay  him. 
He's  coming  over  from  Tree-Tops  to  join  us  at  High  Wy- 
combe.  He'll  be  there  with  Cherry  for  lunch.  It's  because 
of  Cherry,  to  give  you  a  surprise,  that  she  won't  tell  you." 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  Peter  took  his  place  again  beside 
the  golden  woman.  He  understood  her  air  of  mystery  now 
and  played  up  to  it.  In  an  instant  all  his  world  had  changed. 
He  was  going  to  see  Cherry.  A  new  sparkle  came  into  his 
eyes.  The  golden  woman  noticed  it.  "Hulloa  !  Wakened? 
What's  happened?" 

"You've  happened,"  he  said.  "You're  a  topper.  You 
don't  mind  my  saying  it,  do  you?  You're  most  awfully 
kind." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "Am  I  ?  What  makes  you 
say  that  ?" 

"I  know  what's  happened  to  the  Faun  Man  and  Cherry. 
You  can  keep  your  secret ;  but  I  had  to  thank  you." 

"Thank  me !"    She  fell  silent. 


THE    COACH-RIDE   TO   LONDON          405 

He  talked  on  in  high  spirits ;  it  must  have  been  the  horses 
that  suggested  Mr.  Grace.  "He  hasn't  been  so  bloomin' 
prosp'rous  lately — that's  his  way  of  putting  it — not  since 
Cat's  Meat  died.  He  has  to  hire  his  horse  and  cab  now,  and 
doesn't  seem  to  make  much  profit  out  of  it.  'Bloodsuck 
ers  !'  he  says.  'I  'as  ter  give  'em  back  all  I  earns — and  that's 
wot  they  calls  'iring.  Bloodsuckers  !'  " 

As  they  came  down  the  hill  by  Dashwood's  into  High 
Wycombe,  he  ceased  talking,  casting  his  eyes  ahead.  He 
thought  it  just  possible  that  Cherry  and  the  Faun  Man 
might  have  walked  out  to  meet  them.  The  guard  was 
sounding  his  horn  in  long  flourishes.  They  were  in  the 
town  now,  passing  by  the  Market-place.  Now  the  coach 
was  drawing  up  before  the  hotel.  No  one  was  there  to 
watch  them  descend  except  the  ostler  and  some  idlers.  He 
hung  about  while  the  horses  were  taken  out ;  every  now  and 
then  he  stepped  into  the  road,  trying  to  make  himself  be 
lieve  that,  if  he  waited  long  enough,  he  would  see  the  girl 
with  the  red  lips  and  gray  eyes  hurrying  down  the  street 
toward  him. 

Harry  came  out.  "Guessed  wrong  that  time,  didn't  I? 
Come  along  in.  We're  having  lunch." 

It  was  absurd,  this  anxiety  that  he  felt — all  out  of  pro 
portion.  And  yet  it  was  always  like  that  when  he  was 
going  to  meet  her — it  was  always  like  the  first  time.  He 
never  lost  the  thrill  of  choking  gladness  and  surprise.  Each 
time  he  discovered  something  new  in  her  of  sweetness,  leav 
ing  him  amazed  at  his  former  blindness. 

Harry  was  speaking  to  the  golden  woman.  "So  they're 
not  coming?" 

She  crouched  her  chin  against  her  shoulder,  gazing  at 
him  innocently  and  wide-eyed.  "Who  ?" 

"Whyr  my  brother  and  Cherry.  What's  the  secret  ?  Look 
here,  Eve,  you  ought  to  tell  us.  I'm  certain  he  sent  a  mes 
sage — some  sort  of  an  explanation." 

"Are  you  ?"  She  gave  him  a  tantalizing  smile ;  then 
turned  to  Peter.  "Peter  shall  know;  perhaps  before  we 
reach  London." 


4o6  THE    RAFT 

There  was  a  low  rumble,  followed  by  a  crash.  The  rain 
came  smashing  against  the  panes.  They  pushed  back  their 
chairs  and  ran  to  look  out.  In  an  incredibly  short  time 
streets  were  flooded;  gutters  were  turbulent  with  muddy 
rivers.  Rain  thudded  against  the  pavement  and  sprayed 
up  in  little  fountains. 

"Doesn't  look  to  me,"  said  Harry,  "as  though  we'll  ever 
get  as  far  as  London." 

"Got  to,"  said  the  golden  woman. 

The  deluge  commenced  to  slacken,  but  the  storm  still 
hung  above  the  valley,  moaning  and  grumbling.  Rain  swept 
like  smoke  across  the  house-tops. 

Harry  laughed.  "Got  to !  You  can't  drive  a  four-in- 
hand  to  London  through  that.  May  as  well  make  the  best 
of  it.  We've  to  be  back  in  Oxford  before  midnight,  or 

else .  Perhaps  there's  still  time  to  do  it.  We'll  give  it 

a  chance." 

Some  of  the  party  burst  into  the  room.  "I  say,  you  chaps, 
we've  discovered  a  regular  circus.  Such  a  rum  old  cock ! 
Come  out  and  talk  to  him !" 

The  golden  woman  raised  her  head.  "Why  not  bring  him 
in  here?" 

"But  we  didn't  think  you'd ." 

She  lifted  her  hands  and  let  them  fall  despairingly.  "You 
men !  How  selfish  you  are,  keeping  everything  that's  vulgar 
to  yourselves!" 

Scuffling  sounded  in  the  passage  and  a  voice  booming 
protests,  "Not  like  this!  ^It^ain't  fitting.  Not  before  a 
lady." 

A  red-faced  sailor,  in  the  loose  blouse  and  baggy  trousers 
of  the  Royal  Navy,  was  pushed  through  the  doorway.  In 
a  deep  bass  voice  he  immediately  commenced  to  excuse  him 
self.  "Not  my  fault,  miss."  He  tugged  at  an  imaginary 
lock  on  his  forehead.  "I'm  Mr.  Taylor,  I  am — 'ome  on  a 
'oliday,  tryin'  to  find  a  nice  gal  wot'll  appreciate  my  h'un- 
doubted  fine  qualities." 

The  golden  woman  stretched  back  her  neck,  half-closed 


THE    COACH-RIDE   TO   LONDON          407 

her  eyes  and  chuckled.  "Are  you  sure  you  have  any,  Mr. 
(Taylor?" 

The  man  fumbled  at  his  cap.  "Used  to  'ave — used  to 
sing  terrible." 

"Sing  terribly  for  me  now,  won't  you  ?" 

He  struck  an  attitude,  flattered  by  the  request,  and 
hitched  up  his  trousers.  It  was  a  ballad  of  betrayed  maid 
enhood  that  he  sang,  solemn  as  a  dirge  and  intended  to  be 
hugely  affecting.  It  told  of  the  home-coming,  with  her  two 
babies,  of  a  girl  whose  sweetheart  had  deserted  her.  It 
had  a  chorus  in  which,  with  an  unhappy  wag  of  his  head, 
the  sailorman  signed  to  his  audience  to  join: 

"Go  ring  those  village  bells, 
Let  all  the  people  know, 
It  was  on  a  dark  and   stormy  night, 
One,  two,  three — perished  in  the  snow." 

When  they  came  to  the  enumerating  of  precisely  how 
many  perished,  they  stuck  out  their  fingers  three  times. 
But  some  of  them  weren't  content  with  only  three  deaths  in 
one  family;  they  wanted  to  go  on  counting.  Then  the 
sailorman  would  stop  singing  and  reprove  them  gently, 
"You  know,  young  gen'lemen,  that  ain't  right.  It  ain't 
fitting  to  joke  on  death." 

At  last  it  occurred  to  him  that  something  was  amiss. 
"I'm  afraid  I'm  a-makin'  a  fool  of  meself." 

"Don't  mention  it,  Mr.  Taylor,"  they  shouted. 

Their  answer  didn't  reassure  him,  though  they  hurled  it 
at  him  in  varying  keys  many  times.  He  insisted  on  leaving, 
making  his  exit  backward  because  he  had  heard  that  a 
gentleman  must  always  keep  his  face  toward  a  lady. 

The  rain  was  over.  The  sky  had  a  sorry  look  for  having 
been  petulant.  The  sun,  though  he  still  refused  to  come  out, 
hung  golden  ladders  from  the  clouds.  They  stepped  into 
the  street,  gazing  up  and  feeling  the  air  with  their  hands. 

"What  about  it ?"  asked  Harry. 

"Why,  of  course  we're  going,"  said  the  golden  woman. 
Her  eyes  met  Peter's;  they  seemed  to  beg  him  not  to  call 


4o8  THE    RAFT 

off,  but  to  accompany  her.  Why  was  she  so  insistent  about 
getting  him  to  London?  Who  was  waiting  there?  Why 
wouldn't  she  tell  him  anything  about  the  Faun  Man  or 
Cherry?  He  calculated  how  long  the  drive  would  take. 
They  were  not  quite  half-way.  If  they  continued  the  jour 
ney  they'd  barely  catch  that  last  train  back.  Again  he 
recognized  the  appeal  in  her  eyes. 

"What  about  it?    What  do  you  say,  Peter?" 

"I  ?    Why,  I'm  game.    I'm  going." 

Some  of  the  men  refused.  The  party  was  reduced  to  six 
when  they  started. 

What  a  wet  clean  world  they  entered !  It  had  all  been 
made  new  and,  somehow,  tender.  The  spray  of  rain  was 
still  in  the  air;  it  swept  against  their  faces  coolly,  vanished 
unexplained,  and  touched  them  again  without  warning.  In 
meadows  and  tree-tops  there  was  a  continual  muffled  pat 
ter,  as  of  little  unseen  people  treading  softly.  From  the 
back  seats  came  bursts  of  laughter  and  snatches  of  song, 
mimicking  Mr.  Taylor's  impressive  chorus : 

"It  was  on  a  dark  and  stormy  night, 
One,  two,  three — perished  in  the  snow." 

The  golden  woman  bent  her  head  aside,  "Tryin'  to  find 
a  nice  gal  wot'll  appreciate  my  undoubted  fine  qualities! 
That's  what  all  you  men  are  doing." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"Yes,  you  are,  from  the  minute  you  put  on  long  trousers 
to  the  last  moment  when  you  step  into  the  grave.  Men 
don't  find  her  often;  when  they  do,  as  likely  as  not  she 
doesn't  want  them." 

"I  know  a  little  about  that,"  said  Peter;  "so  does  Lorie. 
Women  aren't  very  kind  to  the  men  who  love  them." 

"Oh,  aren't  they!"  She  flicked  at  the  leaders  so  that 
they  leapt  like  stags.  "You're  young;  you  need  civilizing. 
You  don't  know  nothin',  as  that  sailorman  would  say.  How 
many  marriages  are  made  for  love  ?  They're  made  because 
women  are  kind.  Many  a  woman  marries  because  she  can 
listen  to  a  man  talking  all  about  himself  without  letting 


THE    COACH-RIDE   TO    LONDON          409 

him  see  that  she  is  bored  by  it.  Happiness  is  the  only 
reality;  and  love — love's  almost,  almost  a  delusion." 

Peter  looked  at  her  quietly.  She  could  say  jaded  things 
like  that  when  she  was  made  so  beautifully — when  every 
one  turned  to  look  after  her — when  the  finest  man  in  the 
world  would  give  his  life  to  save  her  from  pain !  What 
had  God  done  with  the  years  of  her  life?  She  never 
looked  any  older.  And  she  wasn't  grateful.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  Harry  was  right — all  her  goodness  had  been  put 
into  the  perfection  of  her  body,  and  her  soul  had  suffered. 

She  was  aware  that  his  eyes  rested  on  her  in  judgment. 
She  tried  to  refrain  from  the  impulse.  Turning,  she  flashed 
on  him  a  sudden  smile.  "Too  bad  to  say  things  like  that 
to  you — you  who  hope  for  so  much  from  life!  What's  the 
trouble?" 

"I  was  thinking." 

"Thinking?" 

He  spoke  slowly,  "That  love  only  seems  a  delusion  to 
people  who  refuse  to  be  loving." 

A  common-land  sprang  up ;  geese  wandered  across  it. 
Evening  was  falling  early,  washing  colors  from  the  land 
scape,  blurring  everything  with  its  watery  light.  The  sky 
stooped  near  to  earth,  threatening  to  tumble,  monstrous 
with  bulging  clouds. 

They  drew  up  at  the  inn  at  Gerrard's  Cross.  Peter 
climbed  down  to  stretch  his  legs  while  the  horses  were  being 
changed.  He  found  his  friends  gathered  about  a  time 
table,  peering  over  the  shoulders  of  the  man  who  held  it. 

"We're  not  going  to  manage  it,"  one  was  saying. 
"There's  another  storm  brewing.  Besides,  we're  not  mak 
ing  haste — going  as  leisurely  as  if  we  had  all  the  day  before 
us.  Nothing  for  it,  we'll  have  to  drop  off  and  go  back  by 
train." 

"There's  a  train  leaving  here  in  half  an  hour,"  said  the 
man  who  held  the  time-table.  "I'm  going  to  catch  it.  Get 
ting  sent  down  just  before  your  Finals  isn't  good  enough." 

Harry  interrupted.  "Before  we  decide  anything,  we'd 
better  go  out  and  speak  to  her." 


410  THE    RAFT 

The  case  was  explained  to  the  golden  woman.  They 
were  most  awfully  sorry.  It  wasn't  very  gallant  conduct 
on  their  part ;  but  what  other  choice  had  they  ?  Wouldn't 
she  leave  the  horses  and  the  guard  at  the  inn,  and  come 
back  with  them  to  Oxford?  Or  could  they  see  her  on  the 
train  to  Paddington  ?  Having  told  the  guard  to  go  on  with 
the  harnessing,  she  listened  to  them  quietly.  When  they 
had  finished  she  said,  "Peter  and  I  are  going  to  drive  to 
London.  You're  willing  to  take  a  chance,  aren't  you, 
Peter?" 

He  broke  into  his  boyish  laugh.  "It'll  be  sport.  I'll 
chance  it." 

As  the  coach  moved  off  he  turned  and  waved  to  the 
others,  who  stood  watching  from  the  common.  The  guard 
from  his  back  seat,  raising  the  horn,  gave  them  a  farewell 
flourish.  In  his  heart  of  hearts  Peter  wished  that  he  were 

among  them.  But .  Well,  the  golden  woman  had  a 

secret.  She  was  going  to  tell  it  to  him.  It  had  something 
to  do  with  Cherry.  And  it  wouldn't  have  been  decent  to 
have  left  her  to  finish  the  drive  alone  to  London.  He'd 
get  the  last  train  back  from  Paddington,  barring  accidents. 

She  was  speaking  to  him.  "That's  better.  At  last  we're 
alone  together." 

"Do  you  think  we'll  do  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"Do  what?" 

"Get  there  in  time." 

She  drew  her  brows  together.  "Peter,  Peter,  what  does 
it  matter?  You  take  life  so  seriously. 

They  laughed. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?"  she  asked.  He 
looked  puzzled.  "With  life,  I  mean,"  she  added. 

"Don't  know.    It  depends." 

"On  what?" 

"People,"  he  answered  vaguely,  taking  care  to  avoid  men 
tioning  Cherry.  "I  may  travel  for  a  year.  Perhaps  Kay 
will  come  with  me.  After  that  I'm  going  into  my  father's 
business." 

The  golden   woman's    face   became  grave;   beneath   its 


THE    COACH-RIDE   TO    LONDON          411 

gravity  was  a  flame  of  excitement.  Her  voice  trembled 
and  reached  him  softly.  "That's  not  what  I  meant.  That's 
not  doing  anything  with  life.  Those  things  are  incidents — 
externals.  I  meant,  are  you  going  to  live  life,  or  are  you 
going  to  miss  everything?  Life's  an  ocean,  full  of  endur 
ing,  dotted  with  a  few  islands.  Are  you  going  to  be  an 
explorer — or  are  you  going  to  miss  everything?" 

Odd  that  she,  of  all  persons,  should  have  asked  him 
that !  He  remembered  how  Harry  had  said  that  she  was 
a  ship,  always  setting  sail  for  new  lands  and  never  coming 
to  anchor. 

"An  explorer!    I'll  first  see  the  islands." 

A  strand  of  her  hair  broke  loose  and  fluttered  about 
her  eyes.  "I  can't  put  it  back,"  she  said.  "I  wish  you'd 
do  it."  Her  hands  were  occupied  with  the  reins.  He 
leant  across  her.  As  his  face  came  under  hers,  she  held 
her  breath.  To  him  it  was  nothing.  The  horses,  feeling 
her  hands  go  slack,  broke  into  a  gallop ;  for  a  moment  she 
lost  control  of  them.  When  she  had  quieted  them,  she 
turned  to  him  impulsively,  "Peter,  you're  a  darling."  Her 
eyes  held  his  with  an  expression  of  appeal  and  challenge* 
then  faltered,  as  though  they  were  afraid  to  look  at  him. 

Her  excitement  communicated  itself.  He  was  embar 
rassed.  He  didn't  understand.  He  guessed  that  she  was 
in  trouble  and  was  asking  for  his  kindness.  "Golden  woman, 
how  easily  you  and  I  say  things  like  that.  If  Cherry  had 
said  it  to  me,  or  if  you  had  said  it  to  the  Faun  Man, 
how  much  more ." 

She  cut  him  short.     "Don't." 

They  had  traveled  half  a  mile  in  silence,  when  she  whis 
pered,  "It  wasn't  easily  said." 

In  the  west,  behind  them,  the  sky  began  to  burn.  Little 
tongues  of  flame  licked  the  edges  of  black  clouds.  Mists 
writhed  and  drove  across  the  sinking  sun.  Peter  stood  up 
in  his  seat,  looking  back ;  it  was  a  glimpse  of  hell.  He 
glanced  ahead — everything  over  there  was  blackness. 
Trees  looked  blasted;  they  bowed  their  heads.  Roads  and 


412  THE    RAFT 

fields  were  empty.  There  was  no  life,  no  color  in  the 
meadows. 

"We're  in  for  it,"  he  said. 

Rain  began  to  patter,  softly  at  first.  Wind  was  getting 
up  and  breathed  across  the  country  in  a  long  sigh.  He 
spread  a  coat  across  the  golden  woman's  shoulders.  She 
didn't  thank  him.  Gathering  the  reins  more  firmly  in  her 
hands,  she  whipped  up  the  horses. 

Their  heads  were  bent  together.  Behind  them,  out  of 
ear-shot  on  the  back-seat,  the  guard  huddled.  She  spoke. 
"We're  going  to  be  late.  I  intended  we  should  be  late. 
I  wanted  to  get  rid  of  the  others.  I  knew  that  you'd 
stick  by  me." 

And  again  she  said,  "You  were  talking  of  women  not 

being  kind. Men  aren't  kind  to  the  women  who  love 

them." 

She  had  changed.  Her  face  had  sharpened  out  of  its 
contentment.  Usually  its  expression  was  lazy  and  laugh 
ing,  but  now .  Pain  had  come  into  it.  It  was  intense 

and  thin  with  purpose;  it  was  purpose  she  had  always 
lacked.  He  tried  to  find  a  word  for  the  new  thing  that 
he  found  in  her.  Was  it  only  the  distortion  that  the  storm 
was  working?  A  flash  of  lightning  slit  the  heavens;  it 
ripped  the  clouds  like  a  red-hot  blade.  A  shattering  crash ! 
The  dynamite  of  the  gods  exploding !  Darkness  came  down. 
Another  flash !  Trees  leant  forward,  like  fugitives  with 
arms  extended.  And  she — her  face  was  white  and  domi 
nant.  It  looked  beautiful  and  Medusa-like — snakes  of 
loosened  hair  blew  about  it.  She  no  longer  crouched  her 
head.  She  sat  tall  and  defiant,  the  rain  splashing  down  on 
her.  What  strength  she  had  in  her  hands !  She  held  in 
the  quivering  horses,  speaking  to  them  now  harshly,  now 
caressingly.  They  pricked  up  their  ears,  listening  for  her 
voice.  He  found  the  word  for  the  new  thing  that  had  come 
to  her.  It  was  passion. 

"Come  nearer.  What  did  you  mean  when  you  told  me 
you  had  guessed  my  secret?" 

"The  Faun  Man " 


THE    COACH-RIDE    TO    LONDON          413 

She  took  him  up.  "Yes,  Lorie — he  and  I  had  our  first 
quarrel  this  morning.  We've  both  wasted  our  lives,  wait 
ing  for  something — something  that  could  never  happen." 

"Why  never?" 

"Because  I  can't  bring  myself  to — not  in  his  way.     He 

told  me  this  morning .     It  doesn't  matter  what  he  told 

me.  It  hurt  me  to  hear  him  speak  like  that,  so  strongly 
and  quietly  and  sadly.  Lorie  and  I,  we've  drifted — let  life 
slip  by.  We've  wakened ;  we're  tired."  Then,  like  a  child, 
appealing  against  injustice.  "He  said  I  hadn't  a  heart — 
that  I  was  made  of  stone,  not  like  other  women.  It's  not 
true  that  I'm  different — is  it,  Peter?"  And  again,  "Is  it, 
Peter?"  And  then,  "It  hurt  to  be  blamed  for  not  giving— 
giving  what  would  be  his  to  take,  if  he  were  the  right 
man." 

"The  right  man !  That's  what  Cherry  says.  How  does 
a  woman  know  who  is  the  right  man?" 

She  avoided  a  direct  answer.  "The  right  man  is  always 
born  too  late  or  too  early;  or  else  he's  wasting  himself  on 
someone  who  doesn't  want  him." 

It  was  a  city  of  the  dead  that  they  were  entering.  Rain 
swept  the  streets  in  sudden  and  vindictive  volleys.  Lamps 
shone  weakly ;  some  were  extinguished.  Few  people  were 
about.  At  Ealing  they  halted  for  their  last  change. 

"Won't  be  goin'  any  further?"  the  guard  suggested. 

When  he  was  informed  to  the  contrary,  he  glanced  up 
at  the  drenched  faces.  He  seemed  to  see  a  thing  that 
startled  him.  "Blime !"  While  he  hurried  the  ostlers  with 
the  harnessing,  he  tried  not  to  look  at  those  white  patches 
in  the  dusk ;  his  eyes  returned  to  them,  unwillingly  fas 
cinated.  When  he  had  released  the  leaders'  heads,  he 
stepped  back  and  swung  himself  up  behind  as  the  coach 
lunged  into  the  storm. 

There  was  barely  time  to  reach  Paddington.  Peter  cal 
culated.  If  he  missed  the  train,  the  consequences  would  be 
grave.  He  asked  the  golden  woman  to  hurry.  She  listened, 
but  made  no  attempt  to  quicken  their  pace.  She  didn't 
seem  at  all  disturbed  by  his  dilemma.  He  almost  suspected 


414  THE    RAFT 

her  of  holding  in  the  horses.  Too  late  to  leave  her  now ! 
As  they  trotted  through  the  premature  night,  he  began 
to  ask  himself  questions.  Why  had  she  been  so  determined 
to  finish  the  journey?  Why  had  she  shown  such  eagerness 
to  be  alone  with  him? 

He  leant  forward.     "Where's  Lorie?" 

"In   London." 

"And  Cherry?" 

She  tossed  her  head  impatiently,  "With  you,  it's  always 
Cherry." 

"Well  then,  Lorie — is  he  going  to  meet  us?" 

"If  he  does,  what  difference  will  it  make?" 

"To  me  ?  Not  much.  But  to  you — you'll  know  then,  and 
you'll  be  happy." 

"Shall  I?" 

Her  indifference  spurred  him  into  earnestness.  From 
differing  points  of  view,  the  golden  woman  and  Cherry 
used  the  same  arguments.  If  he  could  convince  her,  he 
could  perhaps  convince  Cherry.  In  fighting  for  the  Faun 
Man,  it  was  his  own  battle  he  was  fighting. 
.  "You  don't  know  yourself,  golden  woman — you  don't 
know  his  value.  He's  become  a  habit — you'll  miss  him  ter 
ribly.  He's  been  too  extravagant  in  the  giving  of  himself. 
He's  made  you  selfish.  If  you  were  to  lose  him,  if  sud 
denly  from  giving  you  everything,  he  were  to  give  you 
nothing ." 

Her  voice  reached  him  bitterly.  "That's  what  he  threat 
ens — to  starve  me  after  giving  me  everything.  He  didn't 
say  it  in  those  words,  but .  What  do  I  care?" 

"You  do  care.  You're  caring  now.  All  day  long  you've 
been  caring.  If  he  isn't  there  to  meet  us ." 

"I  shall  be  glad." 

"You  won't."  He  spoke  eagerly.  "You  won't.  To-night 
you  may  think  you'll  be  glad,  but  to-morrow — to-morrow 
you'll  be  without  him.  Just  think,  you've  kept  him  marking 
time  all  these  years.  He's  expected  and  expected.  You've 
banked  on  him — felt  safe  because  of  him.  You're  foolish. 


THE    COACH-RIDE   TO   LONDON          415 

You  can't  cheat  at  the  game  of  life — you  can't  even  cheat 
yourself;  in  the  end  you're  bound  to  play  fair." 

She  didn't  answer. 

"You  won't  be  glad  if  he's  not  there." 

Silence. 

"Is  he  going  to  meet  us?" 

"If  he  doesn't ."     She  went  no  further. 

"Will  Cherry  be  there?" 

Her  face  flashed  down  on  him,  white  and  stabbing. 
"Again.  Always  Cherry." 

Later  she  whispered,  "Forgive  me,  Peter." 

Without  a  word,  they  passed  through  tunnels  of  muted 
houses.  The  sky  closed  down  on  them.  The  rain  drew 
a  curtain  about  them.  The  slap  of  the  horses'  hoofs  upon 
the  paving  started  echoes.  Traffic  slipped  by  them  spectre- 
like,  as  if  moving  in  another  world.  Now  it  was  between 
shuttered  shops  of  Regent  Street  that  they  trotted.  At 
last  Trafalgar  Square,  vast  and  chaotic,  a  pagan  temple 
from  which  the  roof  had  fallen ! 

They  strained  forward  from  the  box,  searching  through 
the  darkness.  From  the  entrance  to  The  Metropole  light 
streamed  across  the  pavement.  It  was  the  end  of  their 
journey.  As  the  horn  sounded,  a  man  stepped  out  from 
shelter.  For  a  moment — but  no;  he  had  only  been  sent  to 
take  the  coach  to  the  stables.  As  they  clattered  to  a  stand 
still,  several  guests  came  out  on  to  the  steps  of  the  hotel 
to  watch  them.  The  guard  climbed  down  and  ran  to  the 
leaders'  heads.  No  one  was  there  to  greet  them — no  one 
who  was  familiar. 

She  laughed  high  up,  excitedly,  "What  did  I  tell  you  ?" 

"Not  there,"  he  agreed  reluctantly;  "neither  of  them." 

She  touched  his  hand  and  caught  her  breath.  "As  I 
said — neither  of  them  care.  You  and  I — we're  still  alone." 

He  was  sorry  for  her,  guessing  her  disappointment.  Had 
Lorie  been  there  it  would  have  spelt  forgiveness.  Big  Ben 
boomed  ten.  He  started.  "Hulloa !  I'm  dished.  I  can't 
get  back." 


416  THE    RAFT 

"You're  not  going  back?  You  don't  want  to  leave  me? 
Say  you  don't." 

He  was  embarrassed.  He  didn't  know  what  to  make  of 
her.  She  was  on  his  hands;  he  ought  to  be  in  Oxford. 
Evidently  she  had  been  harder  hit  than  she  acknowledged. 
He  tried  to  speak  cheerfully.  "Look  here,  it's  time  we  be 
came  sensible.  That  chap's  waiting  for  us  to  scramble 
down — he  wants  to  take  the  horses.  Let's  go  into  the 
hotel.  I'll  engage  a  room  for  you — high  time  you  got  those 
wet  things  off.  Nice  little  mess  we've  made  of  it!  When 
I've  seen  you  settled,  I'll  toddle  off  to  Topbury  and  spend 
the  night  with  my  people." 

"Will  you?" 

She  glanced  at  him  slantingly.  To  his  immense  surprise, 
she  brought  the  whip  down  smartly  across  the  horses.  As 
the  leaders  darted  forward  the  guard,  taken  unaware,  was 
thrown  off  his  balance.  As  Peter  looked  back  through  the 
steaming  mist,  he  saw  him  picking  himself  up  from  the 
pavement,  waving  his  arms  and  shouting. 

Utterly  bewildered  by  her  shifting  moods,  he  turned  to 

her,  "You've  left  that  chap  behind. I  wish  you'd  tell 

me  what  the  game  is.  I  don't  want  you  to  drive  me  to 
Topbury  and,  anyhow,  the  Embankment's  all  out  of  the 
direction." 

"I'm  not  driving  you  to  Topbury,  stupid." 

He  spoke  more  sternly,  "Seriously,  you  must  tell  me. 
You've  brought  me  to  London  and — by  Jove,  I  almost  be 
lieve  you  tried  to  make  me  miss  my  train.  It  isn't  sport 
ing.  Why  don't  you  turn  back  to  The  Metropole.  I'll  get 
you  a  room  and ." 

"Too  many  people  to  see  us,"  she  said  shortly. 

He  had  only  one  means  of  stopping  her — to  catch  hold 
of  the  reins.  Too  risky!  He  gazed  about  him,  wondering 
what  to  do.  They  were  traversing  the  Embankment — it 
was  empty  save  for  outcasts  huddled  on  benches  like 
corpses.  The  night  looked  sodden.  The  river  gleamed 
murkily.  Lights  on  bridges,  hanging  like  chains,  shone 
obscurely. 


THE   COACH-RIDE   TO    LONDON          417 

She  was  mocking  him  in  low  caressing  tones.  "You  don't 
want  to  leave  me?  Say  you  don't." 

The  odd  repetition  of  the  question  struck  him.  He  had 
missed  its  first  significance.  It  couldn't  be!  He  pressed 
nearer,  peering  into  her  face.  He  caught  the  hungry  plead 
ing  in  her  eyes — the  mad  defiance.  "You  mean ?  You 

never  meant .  Eve,  you're  too  good  a  woman." 

She  halted  the  horses,  and  gazed  down  on  him  smilingly. 
She  shook  her  head  slowly,  denying  his  assertion  of  her 
goodness.  "You  hadn't  guessed  ?" 

"Guessed!"  He  drew  himself  upright.  The  passion  in 
her  voice  appalled  him. 

Her  arms  went  about  him;  cold  wet  lips  were  pressing 
his  mouth.  "You  dear  boy-man  !  You  dear  boy-man  !" 

He  thrust  her  from  him.  He  was  choking.  Her  lips — 
they  scorched  him.  He  had  seen  in  all  women's  faces  the 
likeness  to  his  mother's  and  Kay's.  But  now . 

A  bedraggled  creature,  in  tattered  finery,  with  a  broken 
plume  nodding  evilly  across  her  forehead,  struggled  from 
a  bench,  shuffled  across  the  pavement  and  whined  up  at 
him.  He  took  no  notice.  He  tried  not  to  believe  what  had 
been  meant.  Through  their  nervous  silence  trees  shud 
dered  ;  the  muffled  skirmish  of  the  rain  thudded. 

The  golden  woman  was  watching  him.  A  gleam  of 
hatred  in  her  eyes  at  first — the  reflection  of  his  own  loath 
ing.  Then,  as  pity  replaced  his  loathing,  a  look  of  horror 
spread.  She  sank  her  face  in  her  hands ;  her  fingers  locked 
and  twisted.  She  looked  like  one  who  had  become  sane, 
and  remembered  her  madness.  "What  am  I  ?  What  have  I 
done?"  She  whispered  the  questions  over  and  over;  the 
storm  beat  down  upon  her  shoulders.  He  sat  like  one 
turned  to  stone,  not  daring  to  touch  her,  powerless  to 

put  his  pity  into  words. And  of  this  the  bedraggled 

street-walker,  whining  up  from  the  pavement,  was  sole 
witness. 

A  policeman  tramped  heavy-footed  out  of  the  distance. 
"  'Ere  you,  none  o'  that.  'Urry  along."  This  to  the  street- 


4i8  THE    RAFT 

walker.  To  the  golden  woman,  "H 'any thing  the  matter 
with  the  'osses,  me  lady?" 

She  came  to  herself.  The  street-walker  was  limping  into 
the  shadows.  Her  eyes  followed  her  with  fascination.  She 
felt  for  her  purse ;  not  finding  it,  she  commenced  unfasten 
ing  the  brooch  that  v/as  at  her  neck.  Seeing  her  intention, 
Peter  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  She  stayed  him  with  an 
impatient  gesture. 

Calling  to  the  woman,  she  leant  down  from  the  box  and 
said  something. 

The  policeman  waited  stolidly.  He  repeated  his  ques 
tion,  "H'anything  the  matter  with  the  'osses,  me  lady?" 

"No." 

She  swung  the  coach  round.    There  was  no  explanation. 

Of  that  wild  drive  back  through  the  night  Peter  saved 
but  a  blurred  remembrance.  Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken — 
there  was  nothing  that  could  be  said.  After  they  had 
struck  the  open  country,  they  went  at  a  gallop  most  of  the 
journey.  Every  now  and  then  they  drew  up  at  a  darkened 
inn.  He  climbed  down  from  the  box  and  hammered  on  a 
closed  door.  A  window  opened.  A  rapid  explanation. 
Grumbling.  Sleepy  men  appeared,  only  partly  dressed, 
carrying  lanterns.  Horses  were  taken  out  and  a  fresh  team 
harnessed.  As  the  dawn  came  up,  pale  and  haggard,  he 
saw  her  face ;  it  was  hard-lipped  and  ashen.  He  would 
never  forget  it.  Every  year  showed.  The  golden  hair  had 
broken  loose ;  it  was  the  only  young  thing  left.  She  was 
no  longer  the  golden  woman ;  he  drove  that  night  beside  the 
figure  of  repentance. 

Hills  taken  cruelly  at  a  gallop!  Cocks  crowing!  Un- 
awakened  towns !  The  waking  country !  He  pieced  her 
into  his  experience.  What  was  it  that  women  wanted? 
To  be  married  and  not  to  be  married  ?  To  accept  the  flat 
tery  of  being  loved  and  not  to  return  it?  Riska,  his  Aunt 
Jehane,  Glory,  Cherry — all  the  women  he  had  known — they 
passed  before  him.  He  tried  to  read  their  eyes.  Their 
heads  were  bowed ;  all  that  he  could  learn  of  them  was  the 
pathetic  frailty  of  their  bodies. 


THE    COACH-RIDE   TO    LONDON          419 

Marching  through  the  meadows  came  Oxford,  its  spires 
indomitably  pointed  against  the  clouds.  Now  they  were 
traveling  the  austere  length  of  High  Street.  At  Carfax 
they  turned.  On  Folly  Bridge  they  drew  up. 

She  had  brought  him  back.  He  wanted  to  say  something 
generous. 

"Lorie,  he  loves  you.     If  he  asks  you  again " 

She  nodded.     "If  he  asks  me,"  she  said  brokenly. 

He  walked  along  the  edge  of  the  river,  golden  in  the 
early  summer's  morning,  silver  with  mists  curling  from  off 
it.  He  plunged  in  at  a  point  opposite  the  Calvary  barge. 
As  he  swam,  he  looked  back.  From  the  coach,  high  on  the 
arch  of  the  bridge,  her  eyes  followed  him.  Just  before  he 
landed,  she  raised  the  whip ;  the  horses  strained  forward. 

Running  through  the  meadows,  he  came  to  the  wall  which 
went  about  Calvary,  found  a  foothold  and  dropped  safely 
over.  After  he  had  undressed,  he  hid  his  dripping  cloth 
ing.  He  was  in  bed  and  sleeping  soundly,  when  later  in 
the  morning  his  scout  came  to  wake  him. 


CHAPTER    XLIII 
AN  UNFINISHED   POEM 

STRONG  sunlight  streamed  across  the  foot  of  his  bed. 
Below,  in  the  quad,  he  could  hear  the  clatter  of  breakfast- 
dishes  being  cleared  away.  Fumbling  beneath  his  pillow,  he 
pulled  out  his  watch.  Ten  o'clock!  Time  he  dressed  and 
got  to  work!  Less  than  a  fortnight  till  his  Finals,  and 
he'd  lost  a  day  already! 

A  sound  of  running  on  the  stairs!  Someone  was  enter 
ing  his  outer  room. 

"Hulloa!     I'm  still  in  bed.     Who  is  it?" 

The  bedroom  door  flew  open.  Harry  stood  panting  on 
the  threshold,  holding  a  London  paper  in  his  hand.  For 
all  his  haste,  he  didn't  say  a  word.  He  simply  stared — 
stared  rather  weakly  and  stupidly,  as  though  he'd  forgotten 
what  he'd  come  about.  His  lips  quivered.  The  twitching 
of  his  fingers  made  the  paper  crackle. 

Peter  raised  himself  on  his  elbow.     "Got  back  all  right, 

old  man.     Why ."     He  saw  Harry's  face  clearly;  it 

was  drawn  and  ghastly.     "Don't  look  like  that.     What  is 
it  ?    For  God's  sake,  tell  me." 

"Dead." 

"Dead?" 

He  threw  back  the  clothes,  leapt  out  and  snatched  the 
paper.  Standing  in  the  sunlight  he  caught  the  head-line, 
TO  SAVE  OTHERS.  His  eyes  skipped  the  matter  below 
it,  gathering  the  sense :  "At  the  crowded  hour — in  Hyde 
Park  yesterday  afternoon — lost  control  of  his  horse,  Satan 
— bolted  to  where  children  were  playing — swerved  aside — 
rode  purposely  into  an  iron  fence — thrown  and  broke  his 
neck." 

420 


AN    UNFINISHED    POEM  421 

The  paper  fell  from  his  hand.  He  picked  it  up  and  re 
read  it.  Some  mistake!  He  wouldn't  believe  it.  The 
Faun  Man  dead !  He'd  been  so  brimming  with  life.  Never 
again  to  hear  his  mandolin  strumming!  Never  again  to 
hear  his  gallant  laughter!  To  walk  through  the  roses 
at  Tree-Tops — and  he  would  not  be  there! 

Peter  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  clenching  his  fore 
head  in  his  hands.  The  voice,  the  gestures,  everything — 
everything  that  had  been  so  essentially  the  Faun  Man  he 
wanted  to  recall  before  he  could  forget. 

"If  yer  gal  ain't  all  yer  thought  'er 
And  for  everyfing  yer've  bought  'er 
She  don't  seem  to  care " 

He  could  see  him  bending  over  the  strings  slyly  smiling. 
He  had  been  of  such  high  courage  that  he  could  coin  humor, 
out  of  his  own  unhappiness. 

Then,  like  a  minor  air  played  softly,  "Lorie,  he  loves 

you.  If  he  asks  you  again "  and  the  golden  woman's 

broken  assent,  "If  he  asks  me." 

She  had  kept  him  waiting  too  long.  He  had  asked  her 
for  the  last  time  that  morning.  He  couldn't  ask  her  again, 
however  much  she  desired  it — couldn't.  She'd  blamed  him 
for  his  first  neglect  of  her — had  made  it  an  excuse  for  her 
own  unfaithfulness.  He  hadn't  met  her.  His  neglect  of 
her  had  been  simply  that  he  was  dead. 

Word  came  two  days  later — they  had  brought  him  home 
to  Tree-Tops.  That  evening  Peter  gained  leave  of 
absence. 

White  sheave  si  The  name  was  embroidered  in  geraniums 
on  the  velvet  of  the  close-cut  turf.  The  train  halted  long 
enough  for  him  to  alight,  then  pulled  out  puffing  labori 
ously.  It  seemed  an  affront  that  people  should  be  journey 
ing  when  across  the  fields  the  Faun  Man  lay,  his  journey 
forever  at  an  end.  Only  one  other  passenger  got  out — a 
young  chap,  in  flannels  and  a  straw-hat,  who  was  instantly 


422  THE    RAFT 

embraced  by  a  radiant-faced  girl.  They  sauntered  arm-in 
arm  to  where  a  dog-cart  was  standing  and  drove  away  into 
the  evening  stillness,  their  heads  bent  together,  their  laugh 
ter  floating  back  in  snatches. 

Peter  set  out  reluctantly  by  a  short-cut  through  wheat- 
fields.  He  didn't  want  to  prove  to  himself  that  it  had  hap 
pened.  He  was  trying  to  imagine  that  he  had  come  on 
one  of  his  surprise  visits.  He  would  find  the  Faun  Man 
dreaming,  sprawled  like  a  lean  hound  in  the  twilight  of 
the  terraced  garden. 

The  sun  hung  large  and  low  in  the  west.  A  breeze  swept 
the  country  with  a  contented  humming,  bowing  the  heads 
of  the  corn.  In  the  distance,  above  Curious  Corner,  chis 
eled  in  the  greenness  of  the  hill  the  white  cross  glistened. 
Through  trees  a  spire  shot  up.  Beneath  boughs  thatched 
roofs  of  the  village  showed  faintly.  He  rounded  a  bend; 
the  house  to  which  he  was  going  gazed  down  on  him.  "It 
hadn't  the  look  of  a  house  of  death.  Its  windows  shone 
valiantly  above  the  pallor  of  the  rose-garden,  out-staring 
the  splendor  of  the  fading  west. 

He  climbed  the  red-tiled  path — came  to  the  threshold. 
The  door  was  hospitably  open.  Like  birds  hopping  in  and 
out  of  a  hedge,  the  breeze  and  the  fragrance  of  flowers 
came  and  went.  He  knocked.  No  one  answered.  He  tip 
toed  in.  A  breathless  silence!  Mounting  the  stairs,  he 
came  to  the  door  with  the  iron  latch,  which  gave  entrance 
to  the  Faun  Man's  bedroom. 

Flowers !  He  had  always  Icved  flowers.  They  were 
strewn  on  a  bed  unnaturally  white  and  unruffled.  An  un 
natural  peace  was  everywhere.  The  sheet  was  turned  back 
from  the  face;  the  brown  slight  hands  stretched  straightly 
down.  Each  was  held  by  a  woman  who  knelt  beside  him 
with  her  head  bowed.  The  attitude  of  the  women  was 
tragic  with  jealousy. 

How  long  and  graceful  he  looked  in  death !  How 
gaunt  and  tired !  All  the  striving,  the  brave  pretending,  the 
famished  yearning  which  he  had  disguised  showed 


AN    UNFINISHED    POEM  423 

plainly  now.  A  smile  hung  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
—a  little  mocking  perhaps,  yet  tender.  A  bruise  was  on  his 
forehead.  He  had  the  look  of  one  who,  having  been  puz 
zled,  understood  life  at  last  and  was  content. 

Peter  felt  that  he  had  intruded.  He  had  no  right  to 
stay  there.  Those  bowed  heads  reproached  him.  He  felt 
what  men  often  feel  when  death  is  present:  the  body  had 
been  put  out  to  usury;  at  the  end  of  the  trafficking  it  be 
longed  to  women,  as  it  had  belonged  to  a  woman  before 
the  trafficking  commenced. 

He  wandered  out  into  the  garden.  Twilight  weakened 
into  darkness.  His  feet  were  always  coming  back  to  the 
window ;  he  stood  beneath  it,  looking  up  to  where  she 
knelt.  If  it  were  only  for  a  moment,  surely  she  would 
come  to  him.  Again  he  entered.  No  stir  of  life  in  the 
house.  He  peered  into  the  bedroom.  She  had  not  moved 
since  he  left. 

Beyond  her  was  the  door  which  led  into  the  Faun  Man's 
study.  Noiselessly  he  stole  across  to  it  and  raised  the 
latch. 

The  room  was  in  darkness.  Set  against  the  open  win 
dow  was  a  desk.  Moonlight  drifted  in  on  it.  A  chair  was 
pushed  back  from  it.  A  pen  lay  carelessly  on  the  blotting- 
pad,  waiting  for  the  master  to  return.  Here  it  was  possible 
to  believe  that  the  mind  still  lived  and  worked. 

A  movement !  He  stretched  out  his  hand.  Someone  rose. 
Into  the  shaft  of  moonlight  came  the  face  of  a  man. 
"Oh — oh,  it's  you,  Harry !" 

He  struck  a  match  and  lit  the  lamp.  They  talked  softly, 
in  short  whispered  sentences.  On  the  floor,  on  tables,  on 
chairs,  books  and  manuscripts  lay  scattered.  The  breeze 
blowing  in  at  the  window  turned  pages,  as  though  an  in 
visible  person  were  searching.  A  sheet  of  paper,  lying 
uppermost  on  the  desk,  fluttered  across  the  room  to  where 
Harry  sat.  He  stooped,  picked  it  up,  ran  his  eye  over  it 
and  handed  it  to  Peter.  "The  last  thing  he  wrote.  Think 
ing  of  her  to  the  end." 


424  THE    RAFT 

Peter  took  it  and  read, 

"She  came  to  me  and  the  world  was  glad — 
'Twas  winter,  but  hedges   leapt  white  with    May; 
With  snow  of  flowers  my  fields  were  clad, 
Madly  and  merrily  passed  each  day, 
And  next  day  and  next  day — 
While  all  around 

By  others  naught  but  the  ice  was  found. 
'O  ungrateful  heart,   were  you  ever   sad  ? 
She  was  coming  to  you  from  the  first,'  I  said. 
She  turned  to  me  her  eager  head, 
Clutching  at   what  my   thoughts   did   say. 

"She  went  from  me  and  the  world  was   sad — 
'Twas  spring-time  and  hedges  were  all  a-sway; 
With  snow  of  winter  my  fields  were  clad, 
Darkly   and   drearily  passed   each    day, 
And  next  day  and  next  day — 
While  all  around 

By  others  naught  but  spring-buds  were  found. 
'O  foolish  heart,  were  you  ever  glad  ? 
She  was  going  from  you   from  the  first,'   I   said. 
She  turned  to  me  her  eager  head, 
Clutching  at  what  my  thoughts   did  say." 

"Like  his  life — an  unfinished  poem."  Peter  leant  out  to 
return  it  to  Harry,  but  found  that  he  had  fallen  asleep  in 
his  chair. 

The  lamp  burnt  itself  out.  The  chill  of  dawn  was  in  the 
air.  Through  the  window  the  sky  was  gathering  color, 
like  life  coming  back  to  the  cheeks  of  the  dead.  The  door 
opened  slowly.  Stiff  with  long  sitting  he  staggered  to  his 
feet.  "Cherry !" 

Pressing  her  ringer  against  her  lips,  she  motioned  him 
to  be  silent.  Glancing  at  Harry  she  whispered,  "The  first 
sleep  in  two  days,  poor  fellow." 

As  he  followed  her  across  the  dusk  of  the  bed-chamber, 
a  pool  of  gold  caught  his  attention ;  it  glittered  on  the  pil 
low  by  the  face  of  the  Faun  Man.  The  golden  woman 
lay  crouched  like  a  pantheress  beside  the  body,  her  eyes 
half-shut  and  heavy  with  watching. 


AN    UNFINISHED    POEM  425 

In  the  pallor  of  the  rose-garden  Cherry  halted.  She 
gave  him  both  her  hands.  "We  can  never  be  more  to  one 
another.  Since  this — I'm  quite  certain  now.  I  always 
wanted  to  be  only  friends." 

The  heart  of  the  waking  world  stopped  beating.  His 
hope  was  ended.  Clasping  her  hands  against  his  breast, 
he  drew  her  to  him.  She  gave  him  her  cold  lips.  "For  the 
last  time."  She  turned.  He  heard  her  slow  feet  trailing 
up  the  stairs. 

As  he  walked  to  the  station  through  rustling  wheat-fields 
the  sun  lifted  up  his  scarlet  head,  shaking  free  his  hair,  like 
a  diver  coming  to  the  surface  at  the  end  of  a  long  plunge. 
Birds  rose  singing  out  of  corn  and  hedges,  proclaiming  that 
another  summer's  day  had  commenced.  But  Peter — he 
heard  nothing,  saw  nothing  of  the  gladness.  He  saw  only 
the  final  jest — the  smile,  half-mocking,  half-tender,  that 
hung  about  the  Faun  Man's  mouth ;  and  he  heard  Cherry's 
words,  "I  always  wanted  to  be  only  friends." 


CHAPTER    XLIV 
IN   SEARCH   OF   YOUNGNESS 

"To  you  I  owns  h'up ;  I  'as  me  little  failin's,  especially 

since  Cat's  Meat ."  He  could  never  mention  Cat's 

Meat  without  wiping  his  eyes.  "But  if  I  'as  me  little 
failin's,  that  ain't  no  reason  for  callin'  me  Judas  His 
Chariot  and  h'other  scripture  nimes.  She's  a  dustpot,  that's 
wot  she  is,  my  darter  Grice." 

"A  what?"  asked  Peter. 

Mr.  Grice  was  surprised  that  a  man  just  down  from 
Oxford  shouldn't  know  the  word;  he  was  flattered  to  find 
himself  in  a  position  to  explain. 

"A  dustpot,"  he  repeated.  "That  means  a  child  wot  sits 
on  'er  father's  'ead." 

"Oh,  a  despot !" 

Mr.  Grace  had  learnt  to  be  patient  under  correction. 
"Now,  Master  Peter,  ain't  that  wot  I  said  ?  I  sez,  'She's  a 
dustpot' ;  then  you  sez,  'Oh,  a  dustpot !'  'Owever  yer  calls 
it,  that's  wot  I  calls  'er." 

They  were  sitting  in  an  empty  cab  in  the  stable  from 
which  Mr.  Grice  hired  his  conveyance.  Peter  touched  the 
old  man's  hand  affectionately.  "I've  been  wondering — 
thinking  about  you.  You  know,  I'm  going  traveling  with 
Kay.  My  friend,  the  Faun  Man,  left  me  a  thousand  pounds 
to  buy  what  he  called  'a  year  of  youngness.'  He  was  great 
on  youngness,  was  the  Faun  Man." 

Mr.  Grace  nodded.  His  eyes  twinkled.  "Remember  that 
night,  Peter,  and  the  song  'e  made  h'up  about  yer  ? 

'Oh,  Peter  wuz  'is  nime, 
So  Peterish  wuz  'e, 
'E  wept  the  sun's  h'eye  back  agen, 
Lest  'e  should  never  see.' 
426 


IN    SEARCH    OF   YOUNGNESS  427 

H'l  orften  'urn  it  ter  the  'osses  when  h'Fm  a-groomin'  of 
'em.  Sorter  soothes  'em — maikes  'em  stand  quiet." 

"I  remember,"  said  Peter;  "but  here's  what  I  was  going 
to  say :  you  hav'n't  had  an  awful  lot  of  youngness  in  your 
life  and  yet  you're— how  old,  Mr.  Grace?  Seventy?  I 

should  have  guessed  sixty.  Well,  it  doesn't  seem  fair  that 
j » 

"Nar  then,  Master  Peter!  H'it's  fair  enough.  Don't 
you  go  a-wastin'  o'  yer  h'imagination.  I  don't  need  no 
pityin'." 

"But  it  doesn't  seem  fair,  really;  so  I'm  going  to  make 
you  an  offer — a  very  queer  offer.  How'd  you  like  to  live 
in  the  country  and  get  away  from  Grace  ?" 

"  'Ow'd  I  like  it  ?  'Ow'd  a  fly  like  ter  git  h'out  o'  the 
treacle?  'Ow'd  a  dawg  like  ter  find  'isself  rid  o'  fleas? 

'Ow'd  a ?    Gawd  bless  me  soul — meanin'  no  prefanity 

— wot  a  bloomin'  silly  quesching!"  He  paused  reflectively. 
"But  a  dawg,  Master  Peter,  gits  sorter  useter  'is  fleas,  and  a 
fly  might  kinder  miss  the  treacle.  HTd  like  it  well  enough  ; 
but  if  there  warn't  nothink  ter  taik  me  thoughts  h'orf  o' 
meself,  I'd  feel  lonesome  wivout  'er  naggin'." 

Peter  laughed.  "I'll  give  you  something  to  do  with  your 
thoughts.  My  Uncle  Ocky ." 

Mr.  Grace  woke  up,  turned  ponderously  and  surveyed 
Peter.  "That's  h'it,  is  h'it?  That  awright.  Rum  old  card, 
yer  uncle !  HT  never  fancied  as  h'Fd  let  h'anyone  taik  the 
plaice  wot  Cat's  Meat  'eld  in  me  h'affections.  'E  'as. 
Tells  me  h'all  'is  troubles,  'e  does.  Life's  gone  'ard  wiv  'im 
since  Mr.  Widder  sent  'im  packin.'  My  fault — I'm  not 
denyin'  h'it.  We  'as  our  glass  tergether  and  we  both  'ates 
wimmen — or  sez  we  does.  'E  borrers  a  bit  from  me  nar 
and  then.  Mr.  Waffles  and  me  is  good  pals — we  'as  lots 
in  common.  You,  for  h'instance." 

Peter  inquired  from  Mr.  Grace  where  he  would  be  like 
liest  to  find  his  uncle. 

"Likeliest!  H'if  yer  puts  it  that  waie,  h'l  should  saie 
yer'd  be  likeliest  ter  find  'im  in  a  pub." 

Out  of  the  tail   of  his  eye  Ocky  saw  Peter  entering. 


428  THE    RAFT 

"Horrid  stuff,"  he  said  loudly;  then  in  a  whisper  to  the 

barmaid,  "Give  me  another  three  penn'orth. Why, 

hulloa,  old  son!" 

Peter  led  him  into  a  private  room  and  said  he'd  pay 
for  it.  "D'you  remember  that  night  at  the  Trocadero — you 
know,  when  Glory  was  with  us.  I  told  you  what  I'd  do 
for  you  if  I  ever  had  money.  Suppose  I  could  give  you  a 
chance  to  pull  straight,  what  would  you  do  with  it  ?" 

Tears  came  into  Ocky's  eyes;  he'd  grown  unused  to 
kindness.  "Is  it  the  truth  you're  wanting,  Peter? —  If 
you  gave  me  the  chance  to  pull  straight,  I'd  do  what  I've 
always  done — mess  it." 

Peter  shook  his  head  incredulously  and  smiled.  "Don't 
believe  you.  You'd  pull  straight  fast  enough  if  you  knew 
that  anyone  cared  for  you." 

"No  one  does,  except  you,  Peter." 

"Oh  yes,  there's  someone — someone  whom  you  and  I, 
yes,  and  I  believe  all  of  us,  are  always  forgetting." 

Ocky  looked  up  slowly.  "You  mean  Glory."  He  leant 
across  the  table,  tapping  with  his  trembling  fingers.  "Know 
why  I  went  to  hell? — it  sounds  weak  to  say  it.  I  went  to 
hell  because  I  had  no  woman  to  hold  me  back  with  love. 

If  I  could  have  Glory .  But  she'll  be  thinking  of 

marrying.  I've  spoilt  her  chances  enough  already." 

"If  you  could  have  Glory,"  Peter  insisted,  "and  if  you 
were  to  have,  say,  five  hundred  pounds,  what  would  you 
do  then?" 

"The  truth  again?" 

"Nothing  else  would  be  of  any  use,  would  it?" 

"If  I  had  five  hundred  pounds  and  Glory,  I'd  move  into 
the  country  and  buy  a  pub.  I've  lived  to  be  over  fifty, 
I've  learnt  only  one  bit  of  knowledge  from  life." 

"What  is  it?" 

Ocky  flushed.    "To  you  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it." 

"Never  mind.     Say  it." 

Ocky  twirled  his  mustaches,  covering  his  confusion,  "To 
know  good  beer  when  I  taste  it." 


"  Someone  whom  you  and  I 
are  always  forgetting." 


IN    SEARCH    OF   YOUNGNESS  429 

Peter  leant  back  laughing,  "That's  something  to  start  on, 
isn't  it?" 

Next  day  he  told  Glory,  "They're  willing — both  of  'em." 

In  searching  the  papers  for  advertisements,  he  came  upon 
an  announcement. 

Near  Henley,  The  Winged  Thrush.  Comfortable  river 
side  hostelry;  pleasantly  situated;  suitable  for  artist  or  poet, 
desirous  of  combining  lucrative  business  with  pleasure,  etc. 
A  bargain.  Reason  for  selling,  going  to  Australia. 

He  remembered — that  last  night  of  the  regatta,  the  sun- 
swept  morning,  the  glittering  river,  and  the  breakfast  in 
the  arbor  with  Cherry. 

The  purchase  was  arranged.  Ocky,  Glory  and  Mr.  Grace 
went  down  to  see  the  place.  Mr.  Grace  was  to  look  after 
the  'osses — if  there  were  any;  if  there  weren't,  he  was  to 
help  in  serving  customers.  For  a  reason  which  he  would 
not  explain,  Peter  refused  to  accompany  them  on  their 
tour  of  inspection. 

During  those  last  days,  before  he  and  Kay  set  out  on 
their  year  of  youngness,  he  saw  Glory  often.  From  her 
he  learnt  of  Riska  and  her  many  love-affairs;  how  they 
always  fell  short  of  marriage  because  she  carried  on  two 
at  once  or  because  of  the  deceit  concerning  her  father. 
She  was  getting  desperate;  she  had  been  taught  that  the 
sole  purpose  of  her  being  was  to  catch  a  man — so  far 
she  had  failed.  She  still  had  hope — there  was  Hardcastle. 
In  a  sly  way,  she  saw  a  good  deal  of  him.  Exactly  how 
and  where,  she  had  pledged  Glory  not  to  divulge. 

And  Peter  learnt  of  Eustace.  Eustace  had  gone  to 
Canada,  to  take  up  farming  with  money  lent  by  Barring- 
ton.  Jehane,  with  her  tragic  knack  of  hanging  her  expecta 
tions  on  loosened  nails,  boasted  that  Eustace  was  to  be  her 
salvation.  Perhaps  he  was  careless,  perhaps  he  had  gained 
a  distaste  for  the  atmosphere  of  falsity  which  had  formed 
his  home  environment;  in  any  case,  he  wrote  more  and 
more  rarely,  and  showed  less  and  less  desire  for  his  mother 
to  join  him  as  the  period  of  his  absence  lengthened.  Jehane, 
as  she  had  done  with  his  father  before  him,  invented  good 


430  THE    RAFT 

news  when  good  news  was  lacking,  bolstering  her  pride  in 
public.  Her  children,  despite  her  sacrifices  for  them,, 
watched  her  with  judging  eyes  and,  directly  they  arrived  at 
a  reasoning  age,  began  to  detect  her  hollowness.  Eus 
tace  was  gone.  Glory  was  going.  Riska,  failing  another 
accident,  would  soon  be  married  to  Hardcastle.  Only 
Moggs,  Ma's  Left  Over  as  they  had  called  her  because  of 
her  tininess,  remained.  She  was  a  child  of  twelve,  sub 
missive  in  her  ways,  colorless  in  character  and  with  Ocky's 
weak  affectionateness  of  temperament. 

It  was  the  morning  of  Kay's  and  Peter's  departure.  Dur 
ing  breakfast,  the  last  meal  together,  Barrington  had  sat 
looking  at  the  landscape  by  Cuyp,  as  he  always  did  in  mo 
ments  of  crisis.  The  cab  was  at  the  door ;  the  luggage  had 
been  carried  out.  The  adventure  in  search  of  youngness 
had  all  but  begun.  The  door  bell  rang  and  the  knocker 
sounded.  A  telegram  was  handed  in.  Barrington  opened 
it — glanced  at  the  signature.  "Ah,  from  Jehane !" 

As  he  read  it,  his  face  grew  grave.  He  passed  it  to 
Nan  and  led  Peter  aside.  "Don't  tell  Kay.  It's  about 
Riska.  She's  run  off  with  that  fellow  Hardcastle.  Whether 
she's  married  to  him  or .  It  doesn't  say." 

His  own  rendering  of  the  situation  was  plain — "Ripe 
fruit,  ready  to  fall  to  the  ground." 

They  entered  the  cab,  driving  into  the  great  world- 
wideness.  And  Riska,  with  her  impatient  mouth  and  pretty 
face,  she  also,  in  her  stormy  way,  had  gone  in  quest  of 
youngness. 


CHAPTER    XLV 
LOVE  KNOCKS  AT  KAY'S  DOOR 

THE  castle  stood  like  a  gleaming  skull,  balancing  on  the 
edge  of  a  precipice.  The  centuries  had  picked  it  clean. 
Through  empty  sockets,  about  which  moss  gathered,  it 
watched  white  wings  of  shipping  flit  mothlike  across  the 
blue  waters  of  the  Gulf  of  Spezia.  It  had  been  the  terror 
of  sailors  once — a  stronghold  of  pirates,  Saracens  and  Gen 
oese,  fierce  men  who  had  built  the  hunchback  town  that 
huddled  against  the  rocks  behind  it.  Now  it  was  nothing 
but  a  crumbling  shell,  picturesque  and  meaningless  save 
to  tourists  and  artists.  The  tourists  came  because  Byron 

had  written  The  Corsair  in  its  shadow,  and  the  artists . 

One  of  them  had  left  his  canvas  on  an  easel  in  a  broken 
archway.  Kay  tripped  across  and  looked  at  it — a  wild 
piece  of  composition,  all  white  and  green  and  orange, 
splashed  in  with  vigor,  with  the  fierce  Italian  sky  above  it. 
It  interpreted  the  spirit  of  the  place — its  loneliness,  its 
lawless  past,  its  brooding  sense  of  unsatisfied  passion.  She 
turned  away,  awed  by  its  power,  a  little  frightened  by  its 
intensity.  It  made  her  feel  that,  from  behind  tumbled  mas 
tery,  eyes  were  gazing  at  her.  Climbing  the  splintered 
tower,  she  watched  the  sunset.  In  the  great  stillness  she 
could  hear  stones  dropping  down  the  sheer  cliff  into  the 
racing  tide  beneath. 

She  had  forgotten  how  time  was  passing.  That  low 
bass  humming !  It  was  the  voice  of  the  sea ;  it  seemed  as 
though  the  sun's  voice  spoke  to  her.  Across  the  blue  of 
the  Mediterranean  a  golden  track  led  up  to  the  horizon. 
At  its  end  a  fiery  disc  hung,  like  a  gong  against  which  the 
waves  tapped  gently. 

43i 


432  THE    RAFT 

It  had  been  a  tumultuous  day — a  day  of  excited  fears, 
winged  hopes  and  strategies.  Harry  was  coming.  Peter 
had  received  the  astounding  telegram  that  morning. 

"Queer  chap !  This  was  sent  off  from  Genoa.  He's 
almost  here  by  now.  Why  on  earth  didn't  he  let  us  know 
earlier  ?" 

Why  hadn't  he?  Kay  knew — because,  if  he  had,  there 
would  have  been  still  time  for  her  to  turn  him  back.  The 
persistent  mouth-organ  boy,  he  was  always  quite  certain 
that  he  had  only  to  make  up  his  mind  and  he'd  get  his 
desire.  She  didn't  like  him  any  the  less  for  that,  but — — . 
No,  she  wouldn't  be  there  to  meet  him.  She  had  excused 
herself  to  Peter  and  had  accompanied  him  to  the  sun-baked 
pier,  at  which  the  steamer  called  on  its  way  from  Lerici  to 
Spezia.  She  had  waved  and  waved  till  he  was  nearly  out 
of  sight — then  she  had  fled. 

Why?  She  couldn't  say — couldn't  say  exactly,  but  very 
nearly.  She  had  forbidden  her  mouth-organ  boy  to  come — 
and  he  was  coming.  She  was  secretly  elated  to  find  herself 

defied.  After  all,  she  didn't  own  Italy,  and .  But 

Harry  wasn't  making  the  journey  to  see  Italy,  nor  to  see 
Peter.  She  was  well  aware  of  that — Peter  wasn't. 

So  she  had  persuaded  one  of  her  fishermen  friends  to 
sail  her  across  the  gulf  to  Porto  Venere.  Down  there  in 
the  sleepy  harbor  he  was  waiting,  his  brown  eyes  lazily 
watching,  his  ear-rings  glittering,  his  fingers  rolling  cigar 
ettes,  not  at  all  perturbed  but  wondering,  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders,  why  she  so  long  delayed. 

And  Harry,  he  too  would  be  wondering,  thinking  her  un 
kind.  Peter  had  probably  brought  him  back  to  San  Terenzo 
by  now.  They  would  have  been  on  the  lookout  for  her 
directly  the  steamer  rounded  the  cypressed  headland.  When 
they  hadn't  found  her  on  the  pier,  they  would  have  made 
haste  to  the  yellow  villa  in  which  they  lived,  which  had 
been  Shelley's.  And  again,  they  hadn't  found  her.  She 
could  imagine  it  all — just  what  had  happened :  Peter's  dis 
creet  apologies,  and  Harry's  amused  suspicion  that  he  was 


LOVE   KNOCKS   AT   KAY'S    DOOR         433 

being  punished.  His  laughter — she  could  imagine  that  as 
well;  he  always  laughed  when  he  was  hurt  or  annoyed. 

Kay  clasped  her  hands.  It  was  rotten  of  her  not  to  go 
to  him.  All  day  she  had  wanted  to  be  with  him.  He  had 
traveled  all  the  way  from  London  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her. 
And  yet,  knowing  that,  she  sat  on  in  the  ruined  castle,  while 
the  reluctant  day,  like  a  naughty  child  at  bed-time,  saffron 
skirts  held  high,  stepped  lingeringly  down  the  purple  hills, 
keeping  the  sun  waiting. 

She  was  trying  to  arrive  at  a  conclusion.  To  Peter  she 
was  everything — more  than  ever  this  past  year  had  taught 
her  that.  He  made  no  plans  for  the  future  in  which  she 
was  not  to  share.  It  was  just  as  it  had  been  when  they 
were  girl  and  boy — he  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that 
they  were  always  to  live  together.  The  thought  that  she 
should  marry  never  entered  his  head.  Save  for  the  mouth- 
organ  boy,  it  would  not  have  entered  hers. 

But  the  mouth-organ  boy !  Long  ago,  when  she  couldn't 
see  him,  she  had  heard  him  playing  in  the  tree-tops.  It 
was  something  like  that  now.  Since  she  had  left  England, 
his  letters  had  followed  her.  Sometimes  she  hadn't  an 
swered  them.  Sometimes  she  had  answered  them  casually. 
Sometimes  she  had  had  fits  of  contrition  and  had  written 
him  volumes — compact  histories  of  her  thoughts  and  do 
ings.  It  made  no  difference  whether  she  was  punctual  or 
neglectful ;  like  a  familiar  friend  in  unfamiliar  places,  his 
handwriting  was  always  ahead  of  her  travels,  waiting  to 
greet  her. 

"What  does  he  say?"     Peter  would  ask  her. 

Then  she  would  read  him  carefully  edited  extracts — nice 
polite  information,  entirely  innocuous.  Peter  hadn't 
guessed.  He  mustn't. 

How  preposterous  it  had  seemed  when  Harry  had  first 
written  her  that  he  loved  her!  She  hadn't  regarded  him 
in  the  aspect  of  a  lover — didn't  want  to.  It  had  seemed  al 
most  treachery  to  Peter.  But  now .  Now  it  didn't  seem 

at  all  preposterous — only  wonderful,  and  true,  and  puzzling. 

How  long  ago  was  it?    Eight  months  since  he  had  told 


434  THE    RAFT 

her.  She  had  been  a  child  then — seventeen,  with  cornflower 
eyes  and  blowy  daffodil  hair.  The  knowledge  that  she  was 
loved  had  startled  her  into  womanhood. 

She  ought  to  be  getting  back.  But  Peter,  Peter  from 
whom  she  had  no  secrets,  didn't  know.  She  dared  not  tell 
him — and  Harry  was  there.  Peter  had  given  her  so  much 

— this  year  of  romance;  and  yet,  with  all  his  giving . 

He  might  give  her  his  whole  life ;  he  couldn't  give  her  this 
different  thing  that  Harry  offered. 

She  rose  to  go.  Her  attention  was  arrested.  It  couldn't 
be!  Gazing  sheer  down,  she  leant  out  across  the  broken 
parapet.  In  the  racing  tide,  through  its  treacherous  whirl 
pools,  a  man  was  swimming.  She  could  see  his  reddish 
hair  and  beard  shine  as  they  caught  the  sunset.  As  he 
lunged  forward,  they  sank  beneath  the  surface.  She  held 
her  breath. 

He  was  keeping  near  in  to  the  rocks — so  near  that,  had 
she  dropped  a  stone,  it  would  have  struck  him.  With  all 
his  fighting,  he  was  making  little  progress.  It  was  too  far 
to  the  town  to  run  for  help — moreover,  none  of  the  fishing- 
boats  ever  ventured  there.  She  wanted  to  cry  out  en 
couragement;  she  feared  to  distract  him  from  his  effort. 
Now,  in  rounding  a  bend,  he  was  lost  to  sight.  Ah !  There 
he  was  again.  She  saw  where  he  was  going — to  the 
weather-beaten  steps  which  wound  down  the  precipice.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  pulled  himself  up,  dragging  his 
body  across  the  rocks  like  a  fly  which  had  been  all  but 
drowned.  He  stood  up,  white  and  magnificent,  squeezing 
the  water  from  his  beard  and  hair.  As  he  commenced  to 
climb  the  stair  in  the  cliff-front,  he  vanished. 

She  couldn't  go  now.  Her  curiosity  was  roused.  What 
kind  of  a  man  could  be  so  foolhardy  as  to  do  a  thing 
like  that?  Drawing  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  tower, 
she  waited. 

Whistling — faint  at  first!  It  was  a  gay  little  Neapolitan 
air.  Singing  for  a  stave  or  two !  It  broke  off — the  whis 
tling  took  up  the  air.  Gulls  flew  up,  circling  and  screaming. 
Above  the  moldering  ramparts,  red  and  gold  against  the 


LOVE    KNOCKS   AT   KAY'S    DOOR         435 

red  and  gold  of  the  sunset,  came  the  valiant  head  of  a  man 
who  might  have  been  the  last  of  the  pirates.  His  eyes 
shone  like  blue  fire.  The  wind  was  in  his  beard  and  hair. 
When  he  had  lifted  himself  on  to  the  wall,  he  stood  there, 
on  the  very  edge,  looking  back  perilously.  He  was  of 
extraordinary  height  and  strength.  The  teeth,  through 
which  he  whistled,  were  strong  and  white — everything  about 
him  was  powerful,  his  hands,  his  shoulders,  his  courageous 
face.  He  seemed  a  survival  of  ancient  deity — a  sea-god 
who,  thinking  himself  unobserved,  had  landed  at  the  spot 
where,  centuries  ago,  Venus  had  been  worshiped  by  a  for 
gotten  world.  He  looked  solitary  and  irresponsible — a 
law  to  himself.  Because  of  his  size  and  the  remoteness  of 
the  place,  Kay  was  filled  with  lonely  terror. 

He  walked  slowly  over  to  the  easel  in  the  broken  arch 
way.  He  was  bare-armed  and  bare-footed ;  his  shirt  was 
collarless  and  turned  back  at  the  neck.  Still  whistling,  he 
picked  up  the  palette,  pushed  his  thumb  through  it,  glanced 
across  his  shoulder  seaward  and  commenced  touching  in 
streaks  of  color.  He  worked  carelessly,  yet  with  rapid  in 
tensity.  Sometimes  he  left  off  whistling,  stepped  back  from 
the  canvas,  his  head  on  one  side,  and  surveyed  his  handi 
work.  The  light  was  f ailing. ,  Kay  prayed  that  he  had 
finished — but  no.  Driven  to  desperation,  she  thought  she 
could  creep  by  him.  Harry  and  Peter  would  be  getting 
nervous. 

She  had  drawn  level  with  him.  A  stone  turned  beneath 
her  foot.  His  head  twisted  sharply.  She  commenced  to 
run.  Glancing  back,  she  saw  his  eyes  following — he  was 
laying  down  his  brushes  and  palette.  In  her  panic,  she  had 
chosen  the  wrong  direction;  a  wall  rose  in  front,  blocking 
her  exit.  He  was  coming — she  could  hear  his  bare  feet 
overtaking  her.  She  climbed  the  wall ;  below  lay  the  sea, 
now  orange,  now  sullen  in  patches.  There  was  no  way  of 
escape ;  she  looked  down.  The  space  made  her  dizzy ;  she 
groped  with  her  hands  as  if  to  push  back  the  distance.  She 
felt  like  a  bird  with  its  wings  folded,  falling,  falling.  Every 
thing  had  gone  black. 


436  THE    RAFT 

For  a  moment  she  was  held  out  above  the  sea,  her  flight 
arrested.  Blue  eyes  bent  over  her  laughing.  She  was 
swung  back.  She  found  herself  lying  on  the  sun-scorched 
turf.  The  mdn  was  kneeling  beside  her,  chafing  her  hands 
and  forehead.  Her  faintness  left  her.  As  she  gazed  up 
at  him,  he  smiled  and  said  something  in  an  unintelligible 
language.  She  sat  up  bewildered,  trying  to  appear  brave. 

"I'm — I'm  all  right,  thank  you.     I'll  go  now." 

"Ah,  a  little  English  girl !"  His  voice  was  deep  and 
pleasant. 

She  surveyed  him  with  growing  confidence.  How  con 
cerned  and  gentle  he  was  for  so  large  a  creature !  She 
scrambled  to  her  feet.  He  was  quick  to  take  her  hand,  but 
she  withdrew  it  from  him.  "I'm  really  all  right.  It  was 
only  dizziness.  Good-by,  Mr. — Mr.  Neptune." 

"Mr.  Neptune !"  He  plucked  at  his  red  beard  and 
planted  himself  in  front  of  her.  His  eyes  twinkled. 
"Strange  little  English  girl,  why  do  you  call  me  that  ?" 

"Because  you  came  out  of  the  sea.  And  d'you  know, 
before  I  go  I  want  to  tell  you — I  was  awfully  afraid  you'd 
get  drowned.  Do  you  always  swim  when  you  come  to  the 
castle?" 

Mr.  Neptune  placed  his  hands  on  her  slight  shoulders. 
They  were  large  and  masterful  hands,  barbaric  with  vivid 
smudges  of  the  colors  he  had  been  using.  She  was  con 
scious  that,  in  his  artist's  way,  he  was  looking  not  so  much 
at  her  as  at  her  body. 

"Always  swim  to  the  castle !  No.  It  was  the  first 
time.  Your  poet,  Byron,  was  the  last  to  do  it.  Thought 
I'd  try  just  for  sport,  as  you  English  call  it." 

"I  wouldn't  do  it  again,"  she  said  wisely;  "and  now  I 
must  really  go." 

He  didn't  budge  from  her  path.  She  waited.  He  re 
garded  her  with  amusement.  "Going!  Not  till  you've 
promised  to  let  me  paint  your  portrait." 

Kay  was  astounded  and — yes,  and  flattered.  He  might 
be  a  great  artist;  he  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  im- 


LOVE    KNOCKS   AT   KAY'S    DOOR         437 

portant.  But  she  was  more  frightened  than  flattered:  he 
looked  so  huge  standing  there  in  the  yellow  twilight. 

"Please,  please,"  she  said,  "you  must  let  me  go.  My 
brother's  waiting  for  me  and  he'll  be  nervous." 

He  made  no  sign  that  he  had  heard,  but  gazed  down  at 
her  intently  with  his  bare  arms  folded.  She  hesitated.  A 
sob  rose  in  her  throat.  "Why — why  should  you  want  to 
paint  me?" 

"Because,"  he  said,  "you  are  beautiful.  What  is  beauti 
ful  dies,  but  I — I  make  it  last  for  always."  Then,  in  a 
gentler  voice,  "Because,  little  English  girl,  if  I  don't  paint 
you,  we  may  never  meet  again." 

It  was  the  way  in  which  he  said  it — the  thrilling  sadness 
of  his  tone.  She  felt  that  she  was  flushing,  and  laughed 
to  disguise  her  embarrassment.  "But,  Mr.  Neptune,  I've 
thanked  you  and — and  it  was  your  fault  that  we  met — and 
isn't  it  rather  rude  of  you  to  prevent  me  from ?" 

"No,"  he  spoke  deliberately,  "not  rude.  You're  adorable 
— too  good  to  die.  I  want  to  make  you  live  forever.  If 
I  were  Mr.  Neptune,  d'you  know  what  I'd  do?  I'd  swim 
off  with  you,  earth-maiden." 

Her  words  came  quickly ;  she  was  afraid  of  what  he 
might  say  or  do.  "I  promise.  You  shall  paint  me." 

She  tried  to  pass  him.  He  put  his  arm  before  her  as  a 
barrier.  His  eyes  flashed  down  on  her,  gladly  and  gravely. 
"When  the  English  promise  anything,  they  shake  hands  on 
it.  Is  that  not  so?" 

She  slipped  her  small  hand  into  his  great  one.  She 
heard  a  footstep  behind ;  it  was  her  fisherman  who  had  at 
last  come  in  search  of  her.  She  nodded  to  let  him  know 
that  she  was  coming.  Now  that  she  was  not  alone,  she 
lost  her  fear  of  the  giant.  She  became  interested  in  him. 
She  almost  liked  him. 

"Where  will  you  paint  me?"  she  asked. 

"Here,  against  the  sky.  It's  the  color  of  your  eyes. 
We're  going  to  be  friends — is  it  so?"  He  stepped  aside. 
"Then,  little  English  girl,  good-night." 

As  she  passed  under  the  broken  archway,  she  turned  and 


438  THE   RAFT 

waved.  His  blue  eyes  still  followed  her  through  the  yel 
low  twilight. 

Down  through  the  hunchback  town  she  went.  Its  streets 
were  deformed,  steeply  descending,  scarcely  more  than  a 
yard  wide.  It  was  eloquent  with  memories  of  unrecorded 
fights,  in  which  a  handful  had  held  Porto  Venere  against 
armies.  Beneath  its  close-packed  roofs  it  was  already  night. 
Before  little  shrines  in  the  walls  candles  glistened.  Sailor- 
men,  with  gaudy  sashes  round  their  waists,  bowed  their 
heads  and  crossed  themselves  reverently  as  they  passed. 
In  crooked  doorways  mothers  sat  suckling  their  babies — 
madonnas  with  the  oval  faces  and  kind  eyes  that  Raphael 
loved  to  paint.  To  them  the  mystery  of  love  was  divulged ; 
many  of  them  no  older  than  Kay. 

After  her  great  fear  she  was  strangely  elated.  She  had 
seen  admiration  in  a  man's  eyes.  "Why  should  you  want 
to  paint  me  ?"  She  could  hear  his  deep  voice  replying,  "Be 
cause  you  are  beautiful."  Then  came  the  wistful  knowl 
edge  of  life's  brevity,  "What  is  beautiful  dies."  She  had 
never  thought  of  that — that  she  and  Harry  and  Peter,  and 
all  this  world  which  was  hers  to-day  must  die.  The  old 
town  with  its  defaced  magnificence,  its  battered  heraldry, 
its  generations  of  lover-adventurers  who  had  left  not  even 
their  names  behind  them — everything  reminded  her,  "What 
is  beautiful  dies."  She  was  consumed  with  a  desire  she 
had  never  known  before — to  experience  the  rage  of  life. 

Why  was  it?  What  had  made  her  waken?  Was  it  con 
tact  with  a  primitive  and  virile  personality  ?  She  had  gained 
a  new  understanding  of  manhood.  Would  Harry  be  like 
that,  if  he  lived  to-day  as  though  it  were  a  thousand  years 
ago? 

She  stepped  into  the  boat,  curling  herself  in  the  prow 
among  nets  where  she  would  be  out  of  the  way  of  the 
sail.  Darkness  was  stealing  across  the  sky,  a  monstrous 
shadow-bird  whose  wings  roofed  in  the  gulf  from  shore 
to  shore.  The  sail  began  to  bulge ;  the  boat  lay  over  on  its 
side.  Outlines  of  wooded  hills  grew  vague.  To  the  north 
Spezia  lay,  a  blazing  jewel.  At  the  mast-heads  of  an- 


LOVE   KNOCKS   AT   KAY'S    DOOR          439 

chored  men-of-war  lanterns  twinkled  faintly.  She  trailed 
her  hand,  watching  how  the  water  ran  phosphorescent 
through  her  fingers.  A  fisher-boat  crept  out  of  the  dusk. 
A  guitar  was  being  played.  A  man's  voice  and  a  girl's, 
singing  f  ull-throatedly !  They  faded  voluptuously  into 
silence. 

"Because  you  are  beautiful."  Her  young  heart  beat  flut- 
teringly.  Had  others  thought  it  and  been  afraid  to  tell  her? 
She  leant  back  her  head ;  stars  gazed  down  on  her,  approv 
ingly  and  placid-eyed.  All  sounds  and  sights  were  touched 
with  poetry.  The  whole  of  life  before  her!  Peter  and 
Harry  waiting!  So  much  of  youth  to  spend;  so  many 
choices !  Yet,  only  one  choice — Peter. 

A  voice  hailed  her.     "Hulloa!     Is  that  you,  Kay?" 

So  soon !  She  sat  up.  San  Terenzo  with  its  golden  eyes ! 
On  the  crazy  quay  she  made  out  two  blurs  of  white. 

"Yes,  Peter,  it's  Kay.     Is  Harry  with  you?" 

Before  the  boat  had  stopped,  as  it  nosed  its  way  along  the 
side,  Harry  leapt  in.  "At  last!  It's  you." 

His  voice  was  strained  and  impetuous.  For  eight  months 
he  had  waited ;  he  had  been  kept  waiting  an  extra  day — the 
longest  of  them  all. 

"Hush!"  she  whispered.  "Peter I've  told  him 

nothing.  You  shouldn't  have  come,  Harry;  you  really 
shouldn't." 

She  took  a  hand  of  each  as  they  helped  her  to  land. 
Walking  back  to  the  villa,  she  gave  them  laughing  glimpses 
of  her  adventure,  "So  it's  not  such  a  bad  day's  work ;  he's 
going  to  make  me  live  forever  in  a  portrait." 

Good-nights  had  been  said.  From  her  window  Kay  had 
seen  the  lights  blown  out  in  other  bedrooms.  The  fishing- 
village,  fringing  the  shore,  had  been  in  darkness  for  two 
hours.  She  leant  out,  gazing  across  the  bay  to  where  the 
headland  of  Lerici  curved  in  like  a  horn.  Life — that  was 
what  she  thought  about.  It  was  in  this  very  room  that 
Shelley  had  wakened  and  recognized  the  cowled  figure  of 
his  soul,  and  had  heard  it  question,  "Art  thou  satisfied?" 
It  was  the  same  question  that  she  asked  herself. 


440  THE    RAFT 

A  knock  upon  the  door!  She  started  from  the  window 
and  looked  back.  It  came  again,  so  lightly  that  it  seemed 
to  say,  "Only  you  and  I  are  meant  to  hear  me." 

She  threw  a  wrapper  about  her ;  her  long  bright  hair 
fell  shining  across  her  shoulders.  It  might  be  Peter.  Again 
it  came. 

On  the  threshold  Harry  was  standing. 

"Let  me  speak  to  you." 

She  hesitated. 

"You  gave  me  no  chance  to  say  anything.  Am  I  to  stay 
or — or  to  go  to-morrow?" 

He  ought  to  go.     She  knew  that.    And  yet . 

"I  can  wait,  Kay.  Though  you  send  me  away,  I  shall 
wait  forever  for  you." 

She  was  sorry  for  him — and  more  than  sorry.  This 
pleading  of  the  living  voice  was  different — so  different  from 
the  pleading  of  letters.  Dimly  she  heard  within  herself 
the  echo  of  his  clamor  stirring. 

"Dear  Harry,  I  want  you  to  stay — but  to  stay  just  as 
you  were  always." 

He  caught  his  breath.  It  was  almost  as  though  he 
laughed  in  the  darkness.  "It  was  always  as  it  is  now. 
You  didn't  know;  it  began  that  first  day  when  I  fought 
Peter,  showing  off  like  a  boy.  So  if  it's  to  be  as  it  was  al 
ways ." 

He  looked  so  lonely  standing  there.  He  oughtn't  to  be 
sad  with  her — it  hurt;  they'd  always  been  glad  together. 
She  took  his  hands  tremblingly,  "Stay  and  be — be  the 
mouth-organ  boy.  We'll  have  such  good  times,  Harry,  we 
three  together.  Don't  be  my — anything  else.  I'm  too  young 
for  that,  and ." 

"And?" 

"Peter  hasn't  learnt  to  do  without  me.  Lorie  was  the 
same  with  you — you  understand.  So  Harry,  promise  me 
that  you  won't  let  Peter  know — won't  do  anything  to  make 
him  know,  or  to  make  hrm  unhappy." 

He  put  his  arms  about  the  narrow  shoulders,  stooping 
his  head.  "Trust  me." 


LOVE    KNOCKS   AT   KAY'S    DOOR         44I 

She  leant  her  face  aside  sharply.  "Not  on  my  lips. 
They're  for  the  man  I  marry." 

"But  one  day  I ." 

She  freed  herself  from  him  gently.  "Neither  of  us  can 
tell." 

In  the  days  that  followed,  when  they  walked  and  swam 
and  sailed  together,  Harry  recognized  what  Kay  had  meant 
when  she  said  that  Peter  hadn't  learnt  to  do  without  her. 
With  the  end  of  his  hope  of  Cherry,  all  his  affections  had 
flown  homeward  and  had  concentrated  on  the  love  of  his 
sister.  It  seemed  as  though  he  made  an  effort  to  find  her 
sufficient  for  his  heart's  cravings.  To  all  other  women  his 
eyes  were  blind.  The  thought  that  any  other  woman  should 
come  into  his  life  seemed  never  to  occur  to  him. 

Glory — she  wrote  to  him,  as  Harry  had  written  to  Kay, 
with  conscientious  regularity.  But  he  read  her  letters 
aloud,  obviously  without  editing;  they  were  serious  letters 
like  her  eyes,  searching  and  quiet,  with  a  hint  of  need  be 
hind  them,  and  with  bursts  of  fun  when  she  told  of  the 
struggles  of  her  stepfather  and  Mr.  Grace  to  run  The 
Winged  Thrust  both  genially  and  for  profit. 

And  the  man  who  lived  to-day  as  though  it  were  a  thou 
sand  years  ago — a  week  after  Kay  had  first  met  him,  they 
sailed  across  the  gulf  to  discover  him.  They  found  him  in 
the  castle  painting. 

"Ha !    The  little  English  girl !" 

He  threw  down  his  brushes  and  came  toward  her  with  his 
arms  extended.  He  gathered  her  hands  together  into  his 
own  and  bent  over  her  intently  with  his  eyes  of  blue  fire, 
"I  thought  I'd  lost  my  earth-maiden." 

That  was  all.  So  long  as  Harry  and  Peter  were  present 
he  was  no  more  than  a  shaggy  artist,  a  little  self-important, 
a  little  shy.  When  they  had  walked  off  to  explore  the  town 
it  was  different. 

He  picked  her  up  as  though  she  were  a  child,  and  sat 
her  on  the  broken  wall,  where  the  blue  sea  swept  behind 
her  shoulders  and  the  white  clouds  raced  through  her  corn- 
colored  hair.  For  a  while  he  was  utterly  silent,  touching 


442  THE    RAFT 

in  sketches  of  her,  testing  various  poses.  The  smell  of 
wild  thyme  mingled  with  that  of  flowers,  fermenting  in 
the  sunshine.  From  far  below  the  wash  of  waves  rose 
coolly. 

Presently  he  spoke.  "You  stopped  a  long  while  away. 
Every  day  I've  been  here  watching  for  you.  I  don't  often 

watch  for  anybody.  If  people  don't  come ,"  he  snapped 

his  fingers,  "I  begin  again.  I  begin  with  someone  who  won't 
keep  me  waiting." 

His  egotism  seemed  not  conceit,  but  justified  conscious 
ness  of  power.  Kay  was  beginning  to  explain;  he  cut  in 
upon  her.  "It's  all  right.  For  you  I'd  wait  till — oh,  till 
there  wasn't  any  castle — till  it  was  all  swept  into  the  sea 
by  rain.  But  only  for  you — for  other  people  life's  too 
short."  He  stopped  sketching  and  looked  up  at  her.  "Lit 
tle  English  girl,  life  is  very  short.  Phew!"  He  blew  out 
his  cheeks.  "Like  that,  and  you  are  old.  All  the  lovers 
are  gone.  No  one  cares  whether  you  live  or  die.  With 
us  men  it's  the  same,  only  we — we  search  for  the  great 
secret.  You  have  it  in  your  face.  There's  so  much  to  do; 
it's  not  kind  to  keep  us  waiting." 

"The  great  secret !    What  is  it  ?" 

He  appeared  to  take  no  notice  of  her  question.  Picking 
up  his  pencil,  he  went  back  to  his  sketching.  Then,  while 
he  worked,  glancing  occasionally  to  her  face  where  the 
radiance  of  the  sunshine  fell  against  her  profile,  "The  great 
secret!  It's  hard  to  say.  It's  why  we're  here,  and  from 
where  we  come,  and  where  we  go.  It's  the  knowledge  of 
life  and  the  meaning  of  death ;  it's  everything  that  we  call 
beauty.  I  see  it  in  your  face.  I  paint  it.  How  it  came 
there,  neither  you  nor  I  can  say." 

Next  day  he  set  to  work  on  canvas.  The  picture  grew. 
It  wasn't  for  the  picture  that  Kay  went  to  him ;  it  was  for 
the  things  he  said  in  the  loneliness,  lifted  high  between  the 
waste  of  tossing  sea  and  restless  sky.  He  set  her  think 
ing;  he  made  life  more  glad,  more  eager  and,  because  of 
its  mystery,  more  poignant.  The  great  secret !  He  didn't 
hope  to  find  it ;  but  he  told  her  of  the  men  who  had  sought. 


LOVE   KNOCKS   AT   KAY'S   DOOR         443 

In  telling  her,  he  brought  the  soul  into  her  eyes  and  set  it 
down  on  canvas.  A  young  girl  with  blowy  hair,  perched 
among  things  ancient,  her  white  hands  folded,  patient  for 
the  future,  with  the  pain  of  joy  in  her  wide  child's  eyes! 
That  was  what  he  painted. 

And  she — she  was  stirred  by  him.  He  gave  her  the  free 
dom  of  his  mind.  He  treated  her  as  a  woman,  teaching 
her  knowledge  and  the  sorrow  of  knowledge — from  all  sus 
picion  of  which  she  had  been  guarded.  She  was  as  much 
repelled  as  attracted  by  him ;  through  him  she  learnt  to  love 
Harry.  She  began  to  understand  the  suffering  of  love  that 
is  kept  hungry.  She  began  to  understand  its  urgency.  At 
last  she  understood  that  such  love  as  Harry  brought  her 
must  always  stand  first,  sacrificing  every  other  affection. 
It  was  this  that  gave  pain  to  her  joy. 

One  day  in  early  June,  the  man  laid  aside  his  brushes. 
"The  last  touch.  It's  finished." 

He  lifted  her  down  very  gently  and  watched  her  as  she 
stood  before  it.  Clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands,  she 
gazed  at  her  own  reflection  with  an  odd  mixture  of  wonder 
and  ecstacy.  "But — but  it's  beautiful." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulder,  speaking  softly, 
"And  so  are  you." 

"But  not  so  beautiful." 

"More.     I  couldn't  paint  your  voice." 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  toward  it.  "Oh,  I  wish — 
I  wish  I  could  have  it." 

He  tilted  up  her  face.  "Little  English  girl,  it's  yours. 
I  did  it  for  you.  You'll  know  now  how  you  looked  when 
your  beauty  dies." 

Tears  came.  It  was  like  the  world  complaining  against 
God's  injustice.  "But  I  don't  want  it  to  die." 

He  drew  her  head  against  him.  "Kay— what  an  English 
name!  Little  Kay,  one  thing  will  keep  it  alive."  She 
waited.  "The  great  secret,"  he  whispered;  "it  lies  behind 
all  life.  For  other  people  your  beauty  will  have  vanished ; 
a  man  who  loves  you  will  always  see  it." 


444  THE    RAFT 

Before  she  was  aware,  he  had  touched  her  lips.  It  was 
as  though  he  had  stained  her  purity. 

On  the  sail  back  to  San  Terenzo,  as  the  darkness  drew 
about  them,  she  crept  closer  to  Harry.  He  felt  her  hand 
groping  for  his  own.  "Kiddy,  you're  burning — as  hot  as 
a  coal.  What  is  it?  A  touch  of  fever?" 

She  spoke  chokingly.    "Harry,  my  lips.    They're  yours." 


CHAPTER   XLVI 
THE  ANGEL  WHISTLES 

TT  was  the  longest  day  in  June.  The  room  was  stifling, 
filled  with  greenish  light  which  fell  in  stripes  through  the 
slats  of  the  closed  shutters.  On  the  tiled  floor  water  had 
been  sprinkled.  Walls  were  stripped  bare.  A  sheet,  dipped 
in  disinfectants,  was  pinned  across  the  open  door.  On  the 
other  side  sat  the  nun  who  had  come  to  act  as  nurse. 
She  sympathized  with  the  jealousy  that  kept  them  always 
at  the  bedside  and  only  intruded  when  she  was  sent  for,  or 
to  give  the  medicines.  This  desperate  clinging  of  flesh  to 
flesh  while  the  soul  was  outgrowing  the  body — how  often 
she  had  watched  it!  She  could  not  speak  their  language 
— didn't  understand  anything  but  the  quivering  tenderness 
of  what  was  said.  She  was  a  little  in  awe  of  these  two 
young  Englishmen  who  seemed  so  angry  with  God,  and 
who  sat  day  and  night  guarding  the  dying  girl  lest,  in  an 
unheeded  moment,  God  should  snatch  her  from  them. 
Reckless  of  contagion,  they  bent  above  the  pillow  where  the 
flushed  face  tossed  between  the  plaits  of  daffodil  hair. 

The  fight  was  unequal;  it  couldn't  last  much  longer. 
It  had  been  going  on  for  a  week.  Had  they  known  in  time 

that  it  was  typhoid .  By  the  time  they  knew  it  was 

too  late  for  her  to  be  removed.  The  fishing-village  had 
none  of  the  necessities  of  nursing;  the  doctor  had  to  come 
from  Spezia. 

Someone  had  to  go  for  him  at  this  moment ;  she  had  had 
a  relapse.  Harry  looked  at  Peter.  "I'll  go."  He  spoke 
quietly,  knowing  that  she  might  not  be  there  when  he  re 
turned. 

Peter  touched  Kay's  hand,  attempting  the  cheerfulness 

445 


446  THE    RAFT 

which  they  had  feigned  from  the  first,  hoping  that  it 
might  deceive  even  Death. 

"Kitten  Kay." 

She  opened  her  eyes.  She  had  gone  back  years  as  her 
strength  had  failed.  She  spoke  as  she  looked,  like  a  slight 
child-girl  far  distant  from  womanhood. 

"Belovedest?" 

They  had  been  crowding-  the  gentleness  of  a  full  life  into 
the  words  exchanged  in  those  few  days. 

He  started  to  speak ;  choked  and  had  to  start  afresh. 

"Harry's  off  to  Spezia  to  fetch  the  doctor — the  man  who's 
going  to  make  you  well." 

"Well !" 

It  was  uttered  deliberately,  with  a  wise  disbelieving 
smile. 

"Harry!     Harry!" 

Her  face  grew  troubled  as  she  tried  to  recollect  a  name 
that  was  familiar. 

Harry's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  He  went  on  his  knees 
beside  her,  pressing  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"Kay,  don't  you  know  me — your  mouth-organ  boy?" 

The  puzzled  look  melted.  A  low  laugh  came  to  her 
parched  lips.  "My  dear,  dear  mouth-organ  boy !" 

At  the  door  he  gazed  back  longingly.  Peter  caught 
him  by  the  arm.  It  was  the  struggle  not  to  be  selfish — it 
had  been  going  on  through  seven  days. 

"You  stay.     Let  me  go." 

Harry  shook  his  head.  "She  was  yours  before  she  was 
mine." 

He  slipped  out.    His  footsteps  faded  down  the  stairs. 

In  the  house  there  was  no  sound — only  her  weary  sigh 
ing.  Everything  was  hushed  and  shuttered.  Outside  waves 
dragged  against  the  sand  and  broke  in  long  sparkling  rip 
ples.  A  pulley  creaked  as  a  fisherman  hoisted  sail.  Across 
the  bay  came  the  panting  of  the  steamer  from  Lerici.  It 
drew  in  against  the  pier ;  boys'  laughter  sounded  and  splash 
ing  as  they  dived  for  money.  Again  the  panting,  wander 
ing  off  into  the  distance.  It  rounded  the  headland. 


THE   ANGEL   WHISTLES  447 

Silence .  So  much  of  life  in  the  world  and  none  to 

spare  for  her!  And  this  had  come  at  a  time  when  her 
father  was  ill,  so  that  neither  he  nor  her  mother  could 
come  to  her. 

She  threw  back  the  sheet  which  was  spread  above  her 
slender  body.  Her  hand  groped  out.  "Peter,  Peterkins, 
you  hav'n't  left  me?" 

"I'll  never  leave  you,  and  when  you're  better ." 

Again  the  incredulous  smile !  He'  could  get  no  further. 
Her  voice,  quite  near  to  him,  reached  him  remotely.  "If 
I  should  die ." 

He  spoke  quickly.  "You're  not  going  to." 

"But  dearest,  if  I  should .  You  won't  be  bitter — 

won't  break  your  heart  about  me?  If  you  did,  I  should 
know.  I  shouldn't  be  happy.  Promise  that  you'll  still  trust 
God  and  be  happy." 

Against  his  belief  he  promised. 

He  thought  her  sleeping.  Her  lips  moved.  "God!  No 
man  hath  seen .  Beloved,  we  hav'n't,  have  we?" 

He  was  shaken  with  sobbing.  He  had  to  wait.  "Dear 
little  heart,  you've  been  God  to  me  and — and  to  every 
body." 

"Hold  my  hand,  Peter."  He  was  holding  it.  "I'm  so 
tired.  It's  night.  Light  the  lamp.  I  want  to  see  you." 

He  unlatched  the  shutters.  Across  the  dazzling  blue  of 
the  gulf  the  sun  stared  luridly,  swinging  low  above  the 
sea-line. 

Her  brain  began  to  wander.  She  spoke  unforgettable 
things — unforgettable  in  their  tenderness.  It  seemed  that 
behind  the  confusion  of  her  words  her  spirit  was  prepar 
ing  him.  It  was  as  though  she  turned  the  pages  of  mem 
ory  haphazard,  chancing  on  phrases  which  summed  up  her 
short  eighteen  years  of  existence. 

"Peter  in  a  Christmas  cab !"  There  was  what  he  had 
called  the  laughter  of  birds  in  the  way  she  said  it.  "Oh, 
it  must  be  something  splendid." 

She  came  to  a  winter  when  she  had  nearly  died — when 
Peter  had  been  sent  for  hurriedly  from  Sandport.  "Peter! 


448  THE    RAFT 

Peter !  Peter  !"  She  wailed  his  name  childishly.  Then,  as 
though  she  snuggled  warmly  against  one  she  trusted,  "He's 
never  going  to  leave  me.  I  shall  get  well  now." 

For  some  minutes  she  was  silent.  Of  a  sudden  she  sat 
up,  crying,  "I  don't  want  to  be  a  dead'un.  I  don't  want 
to  be  a  dead'un." 

It  all  came  back — his  boyish  attempt  to  explain  heaven 
to  her,  and  her  terror  because  there  was  no  means  of  escape 
by  trains  or  trams.  -As  then,  so  now,  he  failed  to  console 
her.  She  sank  on  the  pillow  exhausted  by  her  panic. 

During  those  brief  minutes  while  the  sun  fell  lower,  she 
re-enacted  all  the  joys  and  bewilderments  which  had  been 
their  childhood.  Now  they  were  playing  in  the  garden  at 
Topbury.  Now  riding  out  to  the  Happy  Cottage  on  the 
tandem  trike.  Once  it  was  a  flowered  meadow;  she  was 
trying  to  whistle.  His  startled  question  of  long  ago  went 
unspoken.  Only  her  tearful  protest  gave  the  clue  to  her 
wandering,  "I  never  heard  it,  Peter — truly — never.  I  made 
it  up  out  of  my  own  head." 

For  one  thing  which  she  said  he  had  no  picture,  "Not  on 
my  lips.  They're  for  the  man  I  marry." 

He  buried  his  face.  It  was  intolerable.  "My  God,  I 
can't  bear  it."  Love  and  marriage — she  spoke  of  them; 
she  would  never  know  them. 

Lying  there  so  stilly,  while  death  crept  through  her  body, 
she  seemed  uncannily  sensitive  to  all  that  happened  in  his 
mind.  She  knew  that  something  she  had  said  had  hurt 
him. 

Her  delirium  went  from  her.  "Softy  me,  Peter,  like 
you  used  to;  I  shan't  be  afraid  then." 

He  leant  his  face  against  her  hair,  his  cheek  touching 
hers.  She  lifted  her  hand  and  stroked  him  comfortingly. 

Was  she  wandering?  He  couldn't  tell.  Her  eyes  were 
wide,  gazing  into  a  great  distance.  "In  heaven  they  are  all 
— all  serious."  Feeling  him  touch  her,  she  was  filled  with  a 
wistful  regret.  "Beautiful  warm  flesh  and  blood." 

She  tried  to  turn  her  head.    He  raised  himself  over  her. 


THE   ANGEL   WHISTLES  449 

It  seemed  that  her  sight  had  returned.  He  forced  himself 
to  smile  lest  she  should  take  fright  at  his  crying. 

"In  heaven  they  are  all — all ." 

He  listened  for  her  breath. 

With  unexpected  strength,  she  fastened  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  drew  herself  up. 

"Listen.     Listen." 

She  was  staring  through  the  open  window  to  where  a 

red  spark  smoldered  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-line .  A 

sighing  of  wind  across  water !  From  far  away,  whistling — 
a  little  air,  happy  and  haunting,  trilled  over  and  over!  It 
was  like  a  shepherd  calling. 

Her  lips  broke  into  a  smile.    "Beloved,  I  hear ." 

She  drooped  against  his  breast.  The  whistling  grew 
fainter.  The  red  spark  was  quenched.  The  longest  day 
was  ended. 


CHAPTER   XLVII 

"THEIR    VIRGINS    HAD    NO    MARRIAGE- 
SONGS;  AND  THEY  THAT  COULD 
SWIM " 

IN  the  first  stabbing  sense  of  loss  he  hoped  that  he  had 
caught  the  contagion  and  might  die.  Life  without  her  was 
unthinkable.  Then,  through  very  excess  of  grief,  his  feel 
ings  became  blunted.  It  seemed  impossible  that  he  would 
ever  again  fear  or  expect. 

He  moved  as  in  a  shadow-world.  Time  had  no  signifi 
cance.  Days  slipped  by  uncounted.  He  was  trying  to  un 
derstand  life,  searching  behind  the  external  show  for  its 
secret  meaning  and  purpose.  Up  till  now,  with  the  gay 
generosity  of  a  child,  he  had  shared  himself  with  those 
whom  he  loved  and  by  whom  he  was  loved,  concentrating 
and  intensifying  his  affections.  Now,  dimly  at  first,  he  be 
gan  to  view  existence  from  the  angle  of  responsibility,  as  a 
river  ever  broadening  and  growing  more  adventurous,  pour 
ing  down  from  forgotten  highlands  to  the  conjectured  sea. 
It  was  not  his  journey  that  counted ;  it  was  the  direction 
and  journey  of  the  total  river.  If  he  suffered  and  had  been 
glad,  there  were  multitudes  who  were  glad  and  had  suf 
fered.  What  was  the  meaning  of  it — this  alternating  sor 
row  and  gladness?  For  the  first  time  he  asked  himself 
how  other  people  thought,  felt,  endured — people  like  Jehane 
and  Riska,  like  the  golden  woman  and  Glory. 

A  month  ago,  had  anyone  told  him  that  his  sister  would 
be  taken  from  him,  he  would  have  defied  God  by  turning 

infidel.  But  now .  He  realized  reluctantly  how  his 

very  passion  for  her  might  have  crippled  her,  shutting  out 
the  natural  and  fine  things  that  belong  to  every  man  and 

450 


"VIRGINS   HAD  NO  MARRIAGE-SONGS"      451 

woman.  In  giving  her  too  much,  he  might  have  deprived 
her  of  what  was  most  splendid,  giving  her  ultimate  curtail 
ment.  How  near  he  had  come  to  doing  this  he  had  learnt 
from  Harry. 

Her  words  were  continually  recurring  in  his  memory, 
dragging  him  back  from  despondency.  "You  won't  be  bit 
ter — won't  break  your  heart  about  me?  If  you  did,  I 
should  know.  I  shouldn't  be  happy."  The  shame  that 
he  might  be  paining  her  was  always  with  him.  He  had 
the  sure  knowledge  that,  though  he  could  not  see  her,  she 
still  lingered  in  the  house.  Sitting  with  closed  eyes,  es 
pecially  at  twilight,  he  believed  he  could  hear  her  moving — 
moving  gladly.  The  sound  was  always  behind  him,  even 
when  he  turned  his  head.  He  placed  flowers  about  her 
room,  pretending  she  was  alive ;  he  liked  to  picture  her 
surprise  when  she  found  them.  A  white  wraith  of  laughing 
mist,  he  imagined  he  saw  her  stoop  above  them.  In  his 
mind  he  heard  her  voice,  "Oh,  Peterkins,  how  good  you 
still  are  to  me  \"  The  wind  touched  his  cheek ;  it  was 
her  mouth. 

While  her  body  remained  in  the  house  his  grief  was  in 
consolable.  Yet  peace  came  to  him  even  before  the  mortal 
part,  long  and  lily-white,  was  borne  through  the  sun- 
swept  village  to  the  garden  on  the  hill  gazing  out  to  sea, 
cypress-shadowed  and  quiet. 

Through  the  first  long  night  he  sat  beside  her,  fixing 
her  features,  everything  that  had  been  her,  indelibly  in  his 
mind.  The  swathed  feet,  immobile  as  marble  beneath  the 
tall  candles,  brought  back  her  saying,  "The  joy  goes  into 
my  feet  when  I'm  glad." 

Wearied  by  watching,  he  slept.  Again  she  was  dying. 
He  could  hear  her  voice,  trying  so  hard  to  be  patient. 
Someone  entered,  bringing  a  new  body,  exactly  like  the  old 
one  but  well.  She  rose  and  slipped  into  it,  just  as  if  she 
were  trying  on  a  new  dress.  She  caught  him  by  the  hand, 
laughing  excitedly.  In  their  gladness,  as  they  left  the 
room,  neither  of  them  remembered  to  look  back  to  the 
bed;  they  had  no  pity  for  the  abandoned  fleshly  garment. 


452  THE    RAFT 

And  was  death  no  more  than  that  to  the  dead — clothes 

cast  aside,  outworn  by  the  spirit?  What  a  little  to  make  a 
fuss  about! 

Through  the  open  window  dawn  was  breaking.  In  a 
chair  Harry  slept,  his  chin  fallen  forward.  Peter  rose  to 
his  feet  and  tiptoed  over  to  the  still  face  lying  on  the 
pillow,  framed  in  the  golden  hair.  He  stood  gazing  down. 
The  morning  wind  walked  the  sea,  like  the  feet  of  Jesus 
bringing  peace  to  sinful  men.  Far  back  he  remembered 
another  early  morning  when  Kay's  eyes  had  been  closed 
and  he  had  heard  those  same  feet  walking — snow  had  lain 
on  the  ground.  Another  girl,  strangely  like  her,  with  the 
same  bowed  mouth  and  penciled  brows,  had  been  stretched 
beside  her.  While  Kay's  eyes  were  shuttered,  the  other 
eyes  had  opened. 

As  the  days  went  by,  the  desire  grew  strong  within  him 
to  see  Glory — he  wanted  to  trace  Kay's  likeness  in  the  liv 
ing  features.  And  yet  he  postponed. 

It  was  September.  Harry  had  left  for  London,  called 
back  by  work.  Letters  from  Topbury  implored  his  own 
return.  He  was  afraid  to  abandon  scenes  familiar ;  in  losing 
them  he  might  lose  the  sense  of  Kay's  spirit  presence. 

Then  to  him,  as  to  Harry,  came  the  imperative  cry  of  the 
need  of  the  world. 

A  telegram  sent  from  Paris  and  forwarded  on  from  Top- 
bury  reached  him.  Of  all  persons  it  was  from  the  golden 
woman.  It  bade  him  urgently  to  join  her.  He  took  no 
notice.  Another,  saying  that  it  was  not  she  who  wanted 
him  but  someone  whom  he  could  help.  A  third,  still  more 
insistent.  The  first  he  had  suspected;  this  last  was  too 
pleading  for  insincerity.  He  packed  up  and  left. 

In  Paris  she  met  him;  even  then  she  refused  to  tell 
him  why  she  had  sent  for  him.  She  was  a  different  golden 
woman,  grave  and  quiet.  The  day  after  his  arrival,  she 
took  him  out  to  a  gray  Normandy  village.  On  the  train 
journey  she  had  little  to  say;  only  once  did  she  explain 
herself.  A  flight  of  swallows  was  passing  over  a  meadow 
going  south,  moving  steadily  as  a  cloud.  She  met  his  eyes. 


"VIRGINS   HAD   NO   MARRIAGE-SONGS"      453 

"Yes,  I'm  different.  The  stork  knoweth  her  appointed 
times,  and  the  turtle  and  the  crane  and  the  swallow,  but 

.'     You  remember  the  passage.     I  didn't  know  mine. 

I  waited  too   long.     Foolish!     Foolish! The  winter 

came.    My  appointed  time  went  by  me."    And  a  little  later, 
"Don't  let  that  happen  to  you,  Peter." 

They  walked  down  a  white  road  and  came  to  a  cottage. 
She  knocked.  A  voice,  which  he  ought  to  have  recognized, 
told  her  to  enter.  Sitting  in  a  low  chair,  her  foot  rocking  a 
cradle,  was  Riska.  She  rose,  overcome  with  surprise,  low 
ering  her  face,  awaiting  his  judgment.  As  he  pressed  her 
to  him,  the  baby  began  to  cry.  She  stooped,  picked  him 
up  and  held  him  out  to  Peter. 

"Isn't  he  sweet?" 

The  first  words  she  had  spoken — spoken  without  shame 
or  apology,  almost  with  pride!  It  seemed  impossible  that 
a  sin  which  had  made  a  thing  so  beautiful  could  need  ex 
cusing.  He  met  her  eyes,  reading  in  them  sacrifice.  Where 
was  the  old  Riska,  impatient  of  restraint,  eager  to  catch 
men,  with  the  petulant,  fluttering  mouth?  The  passion 
which  should  have  destroyed  had  purified,  just  as  his  grief 
which  might  have  embittered  had  made  him  more  anxious 
to  help. 

On  the  way  to  England  she  told  him  of  Hardcastle.  "I 
got  so  tired  of  trying  and  trying  to  get  married.  All  the 
men  found  out  something — father,  or  my  shallowness,  or 
something.  I  don't  blame  them.  And  all  the  time,  ever 
since  I  was  a  little  girl,  mother  talked  about  the  raft  and 
what  happened  if  a  girl  didn't  escape  from  it.  I  grew 
desperate  and  frightened.  It  was  anything  to  catch  a  man. 
And  then  Roy .  He  said  he'd  marry  me  in  Paris ;  after 
wards  he  put  off  and  put  off.  When  he'd  deserted  me,  I 

didn't  like  to   write.     After  the  baby   came .   I   don't 

know,  it  may  be  all  wrong,  but  I  wasn't  a  bit  ashamed  of 
myself.  I  didn't  write  then  because  I  couldn't  bear  to  think 
of  people  despising  him.  If  the  golden  woman  hadn't  met 
me >.  Oh,  well,  I  should  have  gone  on  somehow,  earn 
ing  money  for  baby  with  my  hands.—  But,  dear  Peter, 


454  THE    RAFT 

I'm  so  glad  you  found  me.     I  never  understood  you  till 
now." 

At  Topbury  that  first  night,  after  a  hurried  reference  to 
Kay,  they  didn't  trust  themselves  to  talk  about  her.  They 
tortured  themselves  the  more  by  their  reticence.  Every 
thing  spoke  so  loudly  of  her  absence.  Nan  sat  with  Riska's 
child  in  her  arms — the  child  which  should  have  been 
unwelcome.  It  seemed  to  fill  a  gap  in  her  life ;  they  all 
knew  what  was  passing  behind  her  eyes.  The  evening  grew 
late.  She  and  Riska  went  slowly  up  to  bed. 

Peter  turned  to  his  father.  For  hours  he  had  sat  grimly 
watching  the  landscape  by  Cuyp,  where  the  comfortable 
burgher  walked  forever  unperturbed  by  the  banks  of  the 
gray  canal. 

"Father." 

"Yes." 

"We're  not  doing  right." 

"Right!"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  gesture  ac 
cused  God  defiantly. 

"No,  father — not  doing  right.  One  of  the  last  things 
she  said  was  that  she'd  know  and  be  unhappy  if  we  broke 
our  hearts  about  her.  She  does  know,  and — and  I  think 
we've  been  making  her  sad." 

For  a  long  time  his  father  sat  brooding.  He  stretched 
out  his  hand,  "Your  imagination,  Peter — you've  never  out 
grown  it.  But — but  we  don't  want  to  make  her  sad." 

The  house  was  hushed.  It  was  some  hours  since  they 
had  climbed  the  stairs.  He  crept  out  of  his  room  into  the 
one  that  had  been  hers.  It  was  the  same  as  when,  years 
ago,  they  two  had  shared  it.  He  gazed  across  the  lamp- 
lit  gulf  to  where  Hampstead  lay  shrouded  beneath  the 
night.  And  he  remembered :  the  moon  letting  down  her 
silver  ladder  and  bidding  him  ascend ;  the  windows  in 
streets  he  had  never  traversed,  which  had  seemed  to  watch 
him  like  the  eyes  of  cats;  the  mysterious  whistling  from 
the  powder-cupboard,  "Coming !  Coming !  Coming !" 

He  tried,  as  of  old,  to  eliminate  barriers  by  the  magic 
of  imagination.  It  was  true,  surely,  and  he  hadn't  grown 


"VIRGINS   HAD  NO   MARRIAGE-SONGS"      455 

up.  Soon  he  would  hear  the  angel  whistle.  On  the  straight 
unruffled  bed  he  would  see  the  gentle  little  body,  with  the 
tumbled  honey-colored  hair. 

He  forgot  his  promise  not  to  break  his  heart  about  her. 
Throwing  himself  down,  he  knelt  beside  the  pillow,  with  his 
empty  arms  spread  out. 

A  sound!  Someone  was  holding  him — someone  who, 
coming  on  the  same  errand,  had  discovered  him. 

"Peterkins!     Peterkins,  don't  cry." 

His  arms  went  about  her  neck.  "Little  mother,  it's  long 
since  you  called  me  that.  I'm  so  tired — tired  of  pretend 
ing  to  be  brave  and  trying  to  be  a  man." 

They  sent  for  Jehane  next  day  and  the  next ;  at  last  they 
had  to  go  and  fetch  her.  Her  heart  was  hard  because  of  the 
disgrace  of  what  had  happened.  She  spoke  with  bitterness 
of  her  children.  Glory's  joining  her  stepfather  at  The 
Winged  Thrush  she  construed  as  an  act  of  treachery.  "A 
daughter  of  mine,"  she  said,  "serving  in  a  public-house!" 
She  had  given  up  all  hope  that  Eustace  would  ever  ask 
her  to  come  to  Canada.  His  infrequent  letters  had  given 
her  to  understand  tacitly  that  she  was  not  wanted.  Only 
Moggs  was  left — a  subdued  child,  a  little  like  Glory. 
Against  disappointment  from  that  quarter  Jehane  fore 
armed  herself  by  taking  disappointment  for  granted.  Her 
sense  of  injustice  centered  in  the  paradox  that  Ocky  was 
happy,  despite  his  mismanagement,  while  she,  after  all  her 
painstaking  rectitude,  was  sad. 

Throughout  the  journey  to  Topbury  she  insisted  vigor 
ously  that  she  would  never  take  Riska  back.  As  she  en 
tered  the  hall  of  his  house,  Harrington  heard  the  last  repeti 
tion  of  her  assertion.  "We  don't  want  you  to,"  he  said; 
"she  and  her  child  are  going  to  live  with  us."  Then  Jehane 
saw  Riska,  and  recognized  the  change ;  promptly  she  turned 
her  accusals  against  herself.  She  had  been  unwise.  She 
had  spoilt  her  life  both  as  wife  and  mother.  Her  calami 
ties  were  her  own  doing.  She  needed  Riska — wanted  her. 
"You'll  come  with  your  mother,  won't  you?" 

Riska    shook    her    head   gently — so   gently   that    for   a 


456  THE   RAFT 

minute  she  looked  like  Glory.  "Mother  dear,  I  can't.  I 
would  if  it  were  only  myself ;  I've  baby  to  consider.  You'd 

do  for  him  just  what  you've  done .  You  couldn't  help 

it.  I'm  going  to  stay  here  with  Aunt  Nan  and  learn — learn 
to  be  like  her — like  Kay." 

Jehane  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "I'm  a  bitter 
woman — yes,  and  jealous.  But  that  my  own  child  should 
tell  me — and  should  be  able  to  say  it  truly !" 

She  looked  up.  "If  I  were  to  try  to  be  different,  if  I 
could  prove  to  you  that  I  was  different ." 

Riska  put  her  arms  about  her  mother's  neck,  "That's  all 
in  the  future.  But,  oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  so  sorry.  I  know 
you've  done  your  best." 

"My  best !"  Her  voice  was  full  of  self-despisings.  "Oh, 
well !" 

She  had  lost  her  last  illusion — her  faith  in  her  own  right 
eousness.  Barrington,  watching  the  disillusioned  woman, 
tried  to  trace  in  her  features  the  eager  face,  tell-tale  of 
dreamings,  that  had  beckoned  to  him  from  a  window  on  a 
summer's  afternoon  in  Oxford.  He  found  no  resemblance. 

He  turned  to  Riska,  who  had  played  life's  game  so  reck 
lessly,  plunging  off  the  raft  of  maidenhood,  swimming  and 
drifting  on  chance-found  debris  to  the  land  of  maternity, 
about  which  her  mother  was  always  talking. 

In  searching  Riska's  face  he  found  Jehane's  dream- 
ings  come  true — self- fulfilment  and  mastery.  Sacrifice,  by 
the  road  of  sin,  had  accomplished  them.  He  recollected  how 
he  had  said  of  her,  "Ripe  fruit — ready  to  fall  to  the 
ground."  He  smiled  wisely,  remembering  his  own  unwis 
dom. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 
AND    GLORY 

HE  was  late.  It  didn't  matter ;  no  one  had  been  warned 
of  his  coming. 

He  punted  down  the  last  stretch  of  river.  It  had  been 
Peterish,  yet  appropriate  of  him  to  choose  this  means  of 
travel.  He  had  arrived  in  Henley  that  morning.  Had  he 
gone  by  road,  he  could  have  been  at  The  Winged  Thrush 
for  lunch.  Now,  full  behind  him,  spying  beneath  the  bent 
arm  of  a  willow  stooped  the  setting  sun. 

All  day  he  had  had  the  sense  of  things  watching — mem 
ories,  associations  of  the  past,  hopes  and  dreads  which  had 
lost  their  power  to  help  or  harm  him.  A  new  hope  had 
become  his  companion ;  he  gazed  back,  taking  a  farewell 
glance  at  the  old  affections. 

As  he  stole  down  the  streak  of  silver,  through  ash-gray 
autumn  meadows,  he  had  many  thoughts.  Cherry  and  the 
last  time  he  had  made  that  journey!  The  Faun  Man  and 
himself — the  way  in  which  men  mistake  their  love !  With 
ered  reeds  rustled  with  the  motion  of  his  passing.  Fallen 
leaves,  scarlet  and  brown  and  yellow,  starred  the  water's 
surface.  Thrusting  himself  forward,  he  sang  and  hummed, 

"I've  been  shipwrecked  off  Patagonia, 
Home  and   Colonia, 
Antipodonia ." 

He  broke  off,  smiling  whimsically.  In  a  figurative  sense 
his  own  autobiography — almost  a  fulfilled  prophecy!  A 
brave  song!  He  liked  it — it  paid  no  heed  to  regret  and 
recorded  only  the  joy  of  pressing  on. 

457 


458  THE   RAFT 

Letting  the  punt  drift,  he  stared  back  into  the  evening 
redness.  It  took  courage  to  learn  what  things  to  remember 
and  how  to  forget.  For  some  weeks  he  had  been  trying 
to  learn — this  river-journey  was  the  testing. 

He  rounded  a  bend.  Ahead  swans  sailed  placidly.  Cattle 
stood  knee-deep  in  water.  In  the  stream,  tethered  to  a 
landing,  boats  swung  idly.  On  a  close-cut  lawn  green 
tables  were  set  out  in  the  shadow  of  trees.  Everything 
stood  hushed  and  huddled  in  the  gilded  quiet. 

He  stepped  out  and  strolled  up  through  the  trellised 
garden.  Finding  no  one,  he  wandered  round  the  inn  to  the 
back.  From  the  stable-yard  came  the  splashing  that  water 
makes  when  a  brush  is  plunged  into  a  bucket ;  then  a  dron 
ing  sound,  punctuated  with  the  hissing  of  an  ostler.  Peter 
laughed  inwardly. 

"Whoa  there,  boy!  You  ain't  a  patch  on  Cat's  Meat. 
Call  yerself  a  'oss  ? Ah,  would  yer !  Shish-shish-shish. 

Oh  Peter  wuz  'is  nime, 

So  Peterish  wuz  'e, 

'E  wept  the  sun's  h'eye  back  agen 

Lest  'e  should  never  see." 

"Hulloa,  Mr.  Grace!" 

The  old  man  started  and  overset  his  bucket.  "Ho,  me 

tripe  and  h'onions,  wot  a  fright  yer  did  give  me ! Why, 

Master  Peter,  'oo'd  'ave  thought  ter  see  you  'ere.  Thought 
yer'd  forgotten  h'us  and  wuz  never  comin'.  HT  wuz  just 
a-singin'  about  yer.  HT  h'orften  does  when  hT'm 
a-groomin'  of  a  'oss.  Sorter  soothes  'im — maikes  'im  stand 
quiet." 

"Where's  Uncle  Ocky?" 

"Gone  ter  'Enley,  white  spats  and  h'all." 

''And  Glory?" 

Mr.  Grace  caught  the  tremble  in  the  question  and  glanced 
up  sharply.  "And  Glory!"  He  passed  his  hand  in  front 

of  his  mouth,  "Miss  Glory,  she .  H'it's  lonely  for  'er, 

a  bit  of  a  gel,  with  two  old  codgers,  like  me  and  yer  h'uncle. 
We  does  our  best,  but .  Ho,  yes !  Where  is  she  ?  On 


AND   GLORY  459 

the  river,  maybe,  a-dreamin'.  If  yer'll  wite  till  h'Fve  fin 
ished  with  this  'ere  'oss ." 

"On  the  river!"  Peter  spoke  quickly,  to  himself  rather 
than  to  his  friend.  "Couldn't  have  passed  her.  Must  be 
lower  down." 

He  was  turning  away.  Mr.  Grace  called  after  him,  "  'Alf 
a  mo' !  Got  somethink  ter  tell  yer."  Peter  halted.  "H'it's 

abart  me  darter,  Grice ;  h'unexpected  like  she's ."  Peter 

waved  his  hand  and  passed  out  of  ear-shot.  Mr.  Grace 
winked  his  eye  at  the  horse.  "Ho,  beg  parding!" 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  trees ;  the  moon  was  rising. 
A  little  breeze  shook  the  brittle  leaves,  laughing  softly 
among  them  as  they  broke  from  their  anchorage  and 
swooped  like  bats  through  the  dusk.  On  the  edge  of  the 
lawn,  overhanging  the  river,  a  white  post  stood  ghostly. 
As  he  untied  his  punt,  Peter  looked  up  and  read  the  legend, 
The  Winged  Thrush.  On  the  sign  was  depicted  a  brown 
bird,  fluttering  its  wings  in  a  gilded  cage.  He  pushed  off 
into  the  stream,  creeping  sharp-eyed  between  misty  banks 
through  the  twilight. 

And  Glory!  Until  the  last  few  months  his  world  had 
consisted  of  other  people — people  who  had  seemed  so  im 
portant — and  Glory.  But  now — now  that  he  could  no 
longer  follow  the  shining  head  of  his  little  sister,  he  had 
halted.  Looking  back,  all  through  the  years  from  child 
hood  he  seemed  to  hear  Glory,  tiptoeing  behind  him.  He 
had  noticed  her  so  rarely.  He  remembered  the  time  when 
he  had  told  her  to  remain  seated  on  the  garden  wall,  had 
forgotten  her,  had  missed  her  and  had  recollected  her  only 
to  find  her  still  waiting  for  him,  crying  in  the  darkness. 
The  terror  seized  him  that  to-night  he  might  have  remem 
bered  too  late — might  have  lost  her. 

Something  tapped  against  the  side  of  his  punt.  He 
leant  out — a  floating  oar!  The  stream  was  beginning  to 
quicken ;  ahead  rose  the  low  booming  of  water  rushing 
across  a  weir.  He  g"azed  about  him.  Down  the  shadowy 
river,  darkly  a-silver  in  moonlight,  a  black  thing,  like  a  log, 
bobbed  in  the  current.  As  he  came  up  with  it,  a  figure 


460  THE    RAFT 

huddled  in  the  stern,  called  nervously  to  him,  "Oh  please, 
I've  dropped  my  oars;  do  help  me."  He  maneuvered 
alongside.  "Why,  Peter!  Dear  Peter !" 

There  was  no  time  for  talking.  From  bank  to  bank 
ahead  of  them  the  stream  leapt  palely,  like  the  white  mane 
of  a  plunging  horse.  Putting  his  arm  about  her,  he  lifted 
her  rapidly  into  his  punt.  The  empty  boat  hurrkd  on  into 
the  darkness.  Working  his  way  upstream,  he  ran  into 
safety  in  a  bed  of  rushes. 

"Glory,  if  I'd  lost  you!" 

She  shook  her  head  laughing,  "You  couldn't." 

He  knelt  beside  her,  clasping  her  hands.  "But  how 
?  What  were  you  doing?" 

"Dreaming.  Just  wondering.  While  I  drifted,  they 
slipped  from  the  rowlocks." 

"Dreaming!"  He  stooped  his  face.  "Of  what — of 
whom  ?" 

Her  voice  sank.    "Must  I  tell?" 

From  his  sky-window  the  man  in  the  moon  drew  aside 
the  curtain ;  he  peered  out  knowingly. 

Peter  had  her  in  his  arms.  His  lips  touched  hers  in  the 
dusk.  His  eyes  met  hers — Kay's  eyes ;  even  in  the  darkness 
he  knew  them. 

"And  you  do  care? You  really  want  me?" 

She  drooped  her  head  against  his  shoulder.  "Oh,  dear 
est,  I  always  wanted .  But  I'm  a  girl,  Peter;  I  didn't 

dare ." 


THE   END 


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three  volumes,  each  $1.50  net. 

This  great  trilogy,  the  life  story  of  a  musician,  at  first 
the  sensation  of  musical  circles  in  Paris,  has  come  to  be  one 
of  the  most  discussed  books  among  literary  circles  in  France, 
England  and  America. 

Each  volume  of  the  American  edition  has  its  own  indi 
vidual  interest,  can  be  understood  without  the  other,  and 
comes  to  a  definite  conclusion. 

The  three  volumes  with  the  titles  of  the  French  volumes 
included  are: 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

DAWN — MORNING — YOUTH — REVOLT 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

THE  MARKET   PLACE — ANTOINETTE — THE  HOUSE 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:  JOURNEY'S  END 

LOVE    AND    FRIENDSHIP — THE    BURNING    BUSH — THE    NEW 

DAWN 

Some  Noteworthy  Comments 

"  'Hats  off,  gentlemen — a  genius."  .  One  may  mention  'Jean-Chris- 
tophe'  in  the  same  breath  with  Balzac's  'Lost  Illusions';  it  is  as  big 
as  that.  .  It  is  moderate  praise  to  call  it  with  Edmund  Gosse  'the 
noblest  work  of  fiction  of  the  twentieth  century.'  .  A  book  as 
big,  as  elemental,  as  original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to 
day.  .  We  have  nothing  comparable  in  English  literature.  .  " — 
Springfield  Republican. 

"If  a  man  wishes  to  understand  those  devious  currents  which  make 
tip  the  great,  changing  sea  of  modern  life,  there  is  hardly  a  single 
book  more  illustrative,  more  informing  and  more  inspiring." — Current 
Opinion. 

"Must  rank  as  one  of  the  very  few  important  works  of  fiction  of  the 
last  decade.  A  vital  compelling  work.  We  who  love  it  feel  that  it 
will  live." — Independent. 

"The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or 
from  any  other  European  country,  in  a  decade." — Boston  Transcript. 

A  32-page  booklet  about  Romain  Rolland  and  Jean-Chris- 
tophe,  with  portraits  and  complete  reviews,  on  request. 

HENRY      HOLT     AND      COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


BY    INEZ    HAYNES    GILLMORE 

ANGEL  ISLAND 

With  2  illustrations  by  JOHN  RAE.     $1.35  net. 

This  strange,  picturesque  romance,  with  its  deep  underlying 
significance,  won  praise  from  such  high  authorities  as  The 
Bookman,  The  Evening  Post,  The  Times  Review,  The  Chi 
cago  Record-Herald,  and  The  Boston  Transcript,  the  last  of 
which  says:  "  Fine  types  of  men  .  .  .  the  five  women  are 
magnificent  creatures.  .  .  .  Always  the  story  carries  it 
self,  but  always  it  is  pregnant  with  the  larger  suggestion, 
which  gives  it  its  place  in  feminist  literature." 

PHOEBE  AND  ERNEST 

With  30  illustrations  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.    $1.35  net. 

Parents  will  recognize  themselves  in  the  story,  and  laugh 
understandingly  with,  and  sometimes  at,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin 
and  their  children,  Phoebe  and  Ernest. 

"  We  must  go  back  to  Louisa  Olcott  for  their  equals."— Boston  Adver 
tiser. 

"  For  young  and  old  alike  we  know  of  no  more  refreshing  story." — 
New  York  Evening  Post. 

PHOEBE,   ERNEST,   AND  CUPID 

Illustrated  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.     $1.35  net. 
In  this  sequel  to  the  popular  "  Phoebe  and  Ernest,"  each 
of  these  delightful  young  folk  goes  to  the  altar. 

"To  all  jaded  readers  of  problem  novels,  to  all  weary  wayfarers  on 
the  rocky  literary  road  of  social  pessimism  and  domestic  woe,  we  rec 
ommend  'Phoebe,  Krnest,  and  Cupid"  with  all  our  hearts:  it  is  not  only 
cheerful,  it's  true."— A''.  Y.  Times  Review. 

"  Wholesome,  merry,  absolutely  true  to  life." — The  Outlook. 

JANEY 

Illustrated  by  ADA  C.  WILLIAMSON.    $1.25  net. 
"  Being  the  record  of  a  short  interval  in  the  journey  thru 
life  and  the  struggle  with  society  of  a  little  girl  of  nine." 

"  Depicts  youthful  human  nature  as  one  who  knows  and  loves  it.  Her 
'Phoebe  and  Ernest'  studies  are  deservedly  popular,  and  now,  in 
'Janey,'  this  clever  writer  has  accomplished  an  equally  charming  por 
trait."—  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

HENRY     HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  iv  '14  NEW  YORK 


BOOKS  BY  BEULAH  MARIE  DIX 

MOTHER'S  SON.    A  Novel 

The  story  of  the  redemption  of  a  spendthrift  German 
"toy  soldier,"  exiled  to  America.  The  heroine  is  the 
author's  'Betty-Bide-at-Home"  grown  up  and  become  a 
successful  playwright.  There  is  considerable  humor.  The 
scenes  are  mostly  Boston  and  vicinity  and  New  York. 
Just  published.  ($1.35  net.) 

Boston  Transcript:  "Straightforward  and  swiftly  the  story  moves  from 
its  happy  beginning  to  its  happy  ending  .  .  .  The  heroine,  that  delight 
ful  "Betty-Bide-at-Home"  .  .  .  that  delicious  femininity  that  makes  her 
so  appealing  ...  a  charming  romance  .  .  .  Through  the  story  of 
his  redemption  shines  the  glory  of  youth,  its  courage,  its  high  optimism,, 
its  unconquerable  faith  in  itself  .  .  .  fine  as  is  the  novel  technically, 
it  is  even  finer  in  its  silent  insistence  upon  an  ideal  of  love  and  or 
marriage." 

THE  FIGHTING  BLADE.     A   Romance 

The  hero,  a  quiet,  boyish  German  soldier  serving  Crom 
well,  loves  a  little  tomboy  Royalist  heiress.  3rd  printing. 
($1.30  net.) 

New  York  Tribune:  "Lovers  of  this  kind  of  fiction  will  find  here  all 
they  can  desire,  and  it  is  all  of  excellent  quality." 

New  York  Times:  "The  freshness  of  youth  and  of  life  and  of  the 
joy  of  living." 

Chicago  Inter-Ocean:  "The  best  historical  romance  the  man  who  writes 
these  lines  has  read  in  half  a  dozen  years." 

ALLISON'S  LAD,  and  Other  Martial  Interludes 
Including  "The  Hundredth  Trick,"  "The  Weakest  Link," 
"The  Snare  and  the  Fowler,"  "The  Captain  of  the  Gate," 
"The  Dark  of  the  Dawn."  One-act  war  plays;  all  the 
characters  are  men,  and  amateurs  have  acted  them 
successfully. 

Boston  Transcript:  "Her  technical  mastery  is  great,  but  her  spiritual 
mastery  is  greater.  For  this  book  lives  in  memory  .  .  .  Noble  passion 
holding  the  balance  between  life  and  death  is  the  motif  sharply  outlined 
and  vigorously  portrayed.  In  each  interlude  the  author  has  seized  upon 
a  vital  situation  and  has  massed  all  her  forces." 

FOR  YOUNG  FOLKS 

FRIENDS  IN  THE  END 

A  tale  of  conflict  between  young  folks  one  summer  in 
New  Hampshire.  Illustrated.  ($1.25  net.) 

Living  Age:  "Far  above  the  average  juvenile  ...  A  vivid  narrative, 
interesting  with  the  intensity  of  a  country  land  rights  feud  .  .  .  The 
people  are  clearly  drawn  ...  a  true  atmosphere." 

BETTY-BIDE-AT-HOME 

Betty  gave  up  college  to  help  her  family,  but  learned 
several  things,  including  authorship,  at  home.  3rd  printing. 
($1.25  net.) 

Churchman:  "Among  the  season's  books  for  girls  it  easily  takes  first 
place." 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  (ix'13)  NEW  YORK 


THE  HOME  BOOK  OF  VERSE 

American  and  English  (1580-1912) 

Compiled  by  BURTON  E.  STEVENSON.  Collects  the  best  short 
poetry  of  the  English  language— not  only  the  poetry  every 
body  says  is  good,  but  also  the  verses  that  everybody 
reads.  (3742  pages ;  India  paper,  i  vol.,  8vo,  complete  au 
thor,  title  and  first  line  indices,  $7.50  net;  carriage  40  cents 
extra.) 

The  most  comprehensive  and  representative  collection  of 
American  and  English  poetry  ever  published,  including 
3,120  unabridged  poems  from  some  1,100  authors. 

It  brings  together  in  one  volume  the  best  short  poetry 
of  the  English  language  from  the  time  of  Spencer,  with 
especial  attention  to  American  verse. 

The  copyright  deadline  has  been  passed,  and  some  three 
hundred  recent  authors  are  included,  very  few  of  whom 
appear  in  any  other  general  anthology,  such  as  Lionel 
Johnson,  Noyes,  Housman,  Mrs.  Meynell,  Yeats,  Dobson, 
Lang,  Watson,  Wilde,  Francis  Thompson,  Gilder,  Le 
Gallienne,  Van  Dyke,  Woodberry,  Riley,  etc.,  etc. 

The  poems  as  arranged  by  subject,  and  the  classifica 
tion  is  unusually  close  and  searching.  Some  of  the  most 
comprehensive  sections  are:  Children's  rhymes  (300 
pages) ;  love  poems  (800  pages) ;  nature  poetry  (400 
pages);  humorous  verse  (500  pages);  patriotic  and  histor 
ical  poems  (600  pages);  reflective  and  descriptive  poetry 
(400  pages).  No  other  collection  contains  so  many  popu 
lar  favorites  and  fugitive  verses. 

~  DELIGHTFUL  POCKET  ANTHOLOGIES 

The  following  books  are  uniform,  with  full  gilt  flexible  covers  and 
pictured  cover  linings.  i6mo.  Each,  cloth,  $1.50;  leather,  $2.50. 


THE  GARLAND  OF  CHILDHOOD 

A  little  book  for  all  lovers  of 
children.  Compiled  by  Percy 
Withers. 

THE  VISTA  OF  ENGLISH  VERSE 

Compiled  by  Henry  S.  Pan- 
coast.  From  Spencer  to  Kip 
ling 

LETTERS  THAT  LIVf 

Compiled  by  Laura  E.  Lock- 
wood  and  Amy  R.  Kelly.  Some 
150  letters. 

POEMS  FOR  TRAVELLERS 

(About    "The    Continent.") 
Compiled  by  Miss  Mary  R.  J. 
DuBois. 


THE  OPEN  ROAD 

A  little  book  for  wayfareri. 
Compiled  by  K.  V.  Lucas. 

THE  FRIENDLY  TOWN 

A  little  book  for  the  urbane, 
compiled  by  E.  V.  Lucas. 

THE  POETIC  OLD-WORLD 

Compiled  by  Miss  L.  H. 
Humphrey.  Covers  Europe,  In 
cluding  Spain,  Belgium  and  the 
British  Isles. 

THE  POETIC  NEW-WORLD 

Compiled  by  Miss  Humphrey. 


HENRY     HOLT 

34  WEST  33RD  STREET 


AND 


COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


BERGSON'S  CREATIVE  EVOLUTION 

Translated  from  the  French  by  'Dr.  Arihar  cMHchett 
8th  printing,  $2.50  net,  by  mail  $2.67. 

"Bergson's  resources  in  the  way  of  erudition  are  remark 
able,  and  in  the  way  of  expression  they  are  simply  phe 
nomenal.  ...  If  anything  can  make  hard  things  easy  to 
follow  it  is  a  style  like  Bergson's.  It  is  a  miracle  and  he 
a  real  magician.  Open  Bergson  and  new  horizons  open 
on  every  page  you  read.  It  tells  of  reality  itself  instead 
of  reiterating  what  dusty-minded  professors  have  written 
about  what  other  previous  professors  have  thought.  Nothing 
in  Bergson  is  shopworn  or  at  second-hand." — William  James. 

"A  distinctive  and  trenchant  piece  of  dialectic.  .  .  .  Than 
its  entrance  upon  the  field  as  a  well-armed  and  militant 
philosophy  there  have  been  not  many  more  memorable  occur- 
ences  in  the  history  of  ideas." — Nation. 

"To  bring  out  in  an  adequate  manner  the  effect  which 
Bergson's  philsophy  has  on  those  who  are  attracted  by  it 
let  us  try  to  imagine  what  it  would  have  been  like  to  have 
lived  when  Kant  produced  his  'Critique  of  Pure  Reason.'" — 
Hibbert  Journal. 

"Creative  Evolution  is  destined,  I  believe,  to  mark  an 
epoch  in  the  history  of  modern  thought.  The  work  has  its 
root  in  modern  physical  science,  but  it  blooms  and  bears 
fruit  in  the  spirit  to  a  degree  quite  unprecedented.  .  .  . 
Bergson  is  a  new  star  in  the  intellectual  firmament  of  our 
day.  He  is  a  philosopher  upon  whom  the  spirits  of  both 
literature  and  science  have  descended.  In  his  great  work 
he  touches  the  materialism  of  science  to  finer  issues.  Prob 
ably  no  other  writer  of  our  time  has  possessed  in  the  same 
measure  the  three  gifts,  the  literary,  the  scientific,  and  the 
philosophical.  Bergson  is  a  kind  of  chastened  and  spirit 
ualized  Herbert  Spencer." — John  Burroughs  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series4939 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000920150     o 


PS 

3507 

D3l8r 


